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POEMS: 



LYRICAL, DRAMATIC, AND ROMANTIC. 



BY 

JOHN SAYAOE. 



NEW YORK: 
JAMES B. KIRKER, PUBLISHER, 

599 BROADWAY. 
1867. 



1J& 



P5X779 
^ ■ 



Entered accordini: to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, 

P.Y JAMES B. KIRKER, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for .he 

Southern District of New York. 



Army And Navy Olnb 
Of Washiiifftoa £>,o. 



PREFACE. 



In acceding to the Pnl)lislicr's desire to embrace in 
one volume the works which form this collection, tlie 
author deems it a fitting opportunity to acknowledge 
that a paramount inducement to his doing so was found 
in a perusal of the reviews and criticisms called forth by 
these productions on their original appearance. 

Of the thirty-seven pieces comprised in Faith and 
Fancy, thirty-two have been variously distinguished 
by "honorable mention'^ and commendatory criticism. 
Sybil has met a favorable hearing in the study as well 
as upon the stage ; and Eva, the latest published, if not 
so well known, is said by suflSciently high authority to 
be worthy of extended acquaintance. In a second edi- 
tion of the first named (1864) some changes and correc- 
tions were introduced. In the present collection several 
verbal revisions are made. 

The author will be pardoned for alluding with pride to 
the fact that the character of the criticisms referred to 
was in the ratio of the capacity of the writers. The 
most capable minds who noticed him were naturally the 



b PREFACE. 

most discriminating and liberal in their remarks, while 
the few specimens of illiberality he met were portrayed 
with congenial flippancy and pretension. 

It is an elevating consolation to the conscientious 
student — on whatever path — to know that while friendly 
criticism may not create lasting reputation, neither can un- 
friendly criticism prevent its achievement when deserved. 
If these pages contain the elements of poetic fire, truth, 
or beauty, they will live ; if not, nothing can procure 
them a desirable longevity. 

FoRDHAM, November 21st, ISftC. 



MRS. ELIZABETH A. SAVAGE, 

WHOSE FORTITUDE UNDER SEVERE TRIALS, 

aiMPLICITT OF CHARACTER AND STRENGTH OF AFFECTION, 

HAVE MADE HER A GOOD MOTHER AND A CHEERING COMPANION, 

(injis CoUcctroit 

IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
BY HER SON, 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



1. FAITH AND FANCY. 
II. SYBIL: A TRAGEDY. 
III. EVA: A GOBLIN ROMANCE. 



FAITH AND FANCY, 



TO THE 

HON. CHARLES P. DALY, LL.D., 

FIliST JUDGE OF THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS, NEW YORK, 
ETC., ETC., ETC. 



My dear Friend: 

With great esteem for your many virtues and 
accomplisliments, I dedicate this book of " Faith and Fancy" to 
you, and sincerely regret my inability to make it more worthy 
of your acceptance. While, however, I am thus proudly eager 
to let my readers know how I value private worth and public 
mtegrity ; how in your person I honor purity of feeling, up- 
rightness of character, and steadfast devotion to principle ; and 
admire the variety of talent and intellectual resources which 
illustrate the unceasing promptings of your heart to generous 
eftbrts in behalf of Letters, Science, Humanity, and Justice ; — 
while I thus take advantage of this Publication to boast sincere 
aftection and respect for one so widely useful and so generally 
beloved, let me, under cover of the indulgence your public 
services will command, add a very few words touching the vol- 
ume I oifer you. 

Prefaces, it would seem, are not so much the fashion now as 
in days gone by, though I am glad to see that some of our best 
and most powerful writers do not ignore the good old sociable 
custom. I confess to a feeling of self-respect which would com- 
pel me to raise my hat, by way of prefatory courtesy, to the 
person who, either at his own or my desire, was going to be 
the confidant of my hopes, woes, experiences, or sensations. 
Every person who writes poetry, is in such a position of self- 
ex^posure. If he aspire at all to transcribe or embody the feel- 
ings which evoke or prompt human action, he cannot help 



DEDICATION. 

writing- largely from his own heart's blood, and in the hues it 
has taken by contact with Men, Faith, and Nature. Hence, 1 
desire to appropriate a paragraph of this dedicatory epistle to 
briefly convey to my kind readers what otherwise might be 
stated in a Preface. 

With few exceptions, the pieces herein collected have been 
published — some anonymously and a few as translations — in 
various periodicals, during the past thirteen years ; and in 
many instances received a degree of popular, and in some cases 
critical attention. I did not anticipate. After reproduction in 
various presses, some have found their way into collections ; 
others have been read by professional readers to large and ap- 
proving audiences ; and others again — in the earlier portion of 
the volume — have been quoted by eminent and popular speakers 
on both sides of the Atlantic. The song at the opening of the 
Book, is ])]aced there out of respect, not only to the subject 
which should be first in our hearts, but also to the galliint 
soldiers wlio gave it its first eclat on the historical occasion de- 
scribed in the note. However undue and unmerited the kind 
approbation referred to, I cannot overlook it ; and in deeply 
appreciating it, feel some justification in collecting the scattered 
links of years between the Press, the Public, and myself ; ajid — 
with the addition of a few others — welding all into a chain 
which, I trust, will bind me still more pleasantly and serviceably 
to them. 

Begging you to receive this dedication as an humble thougli 
earnest tribute to good nature and great services, 
I have the honor to be 

Your friend and servant, 

John Savage. 
December 13, ISPc, 



CONTENTS. 



PAOK 

The Stp.rry Flasr 'J 

The Muster of the North 12 

The Patriot Mother 22 

Soldier's Song 23 

God preserve the Union 2r> 

A Battle Pniyer 29 

Requiem for the Dead of the Irish Brigade 31 

Redemption 33 

Flowers on my Desk 34 

A Phantasy 38 

Mina -^0 

" Remember we are Friends" 42 

To an Artist 44 

Lilla 47 

Haunted 49 

Love's Imagination 51 

" May God bless us" 53 

Celia's Tea 53 

A New Life 54 

The God-Child of July 57 

Breasting the World 60 

At Niagara : 

The Rapids 61 

The Falls 62 

Shane's Head 04 



f CONTENTS. 

PAQR 

St. Anne's Well fi8 

Winter Thoughts : 

I. The Dead Year 72 

II. A Frosty Night 73 

III. Snow on the Ground 74 

IV. Summer always 7.1 

V. Faces in the Fire 76 

Washington 77 

The Plaint of the Wild-flower SO 

Game Laws SG 

Dreaming by Moonlight 85 

Eifle Gray 107 

The Parting of the iSun 109 

He Writes for Lrbbei 112 

Notes ,...,, 115 



FAITH AKD FANCY. 



THE STARRY FS^M^' 

Air — " Dixie's Land."" — Recitativo. 
I. 

Oh, the starry flag is the flag for me I 
'Tis the flag of life ! the flag of the free I 
Then hurrah 1 hurrah ! 

For the flag of the Union I 
Oh, the starry flag, k--. 

We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
Where no power in wrath can face i. . 

On town and field. 

The people's shield, 
No treason can erase it I 

O'er all the land 

That flag must stand, 
Where the people's naight shall place it. 



10 FAITH AND FANCY. 

II. 

That flag was won through gloom and woe I 
It has blessed the brave and awed the foe ! 

Then hurrah ! hurrah ! 

For the flau: of the Union ! 
That flag was won, t^f . 
We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
Where the stripes no hand can ser-r ! 

On fort and mast, 

We'll nail it fast, 
To balk all base endeavor! 

O'er roof and spire 

A living fire 
Tlie Stars shall blaze forever I 

III. 
'Tis the people's will, both o-i-ppt and small, 
The riglits of the States, ine union of all I 

Then hurrah ! hurrah ! 

For the flag of the Union ! 
'Tis the people's will, &c. 
We'll raise that starry banner, boys. 

Hurrah I hurr/*!: I 
We'll raise that starry banner, ooys. 
Till it is the world's wonder ! 

On fort and crag 

We'll plant that flag 
With the people's voice of thunder ! 

We'll plant that flag 

Where none can drag 
Its immortal folds asunder ! 



THE STARRY FLAG. 11 

IV. 

We must keep that flag where it e'er has stood, 
In front of the free, the wise, and the good I 
Then hurrah I hurrah 1 

For the flag of the Union ! 

We must keep that flag, &c. 

We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 

Hurrah I hurrah I 
We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
On field, fort, mast, and steeple ! 

And fight and fall 

At our country's call. 
By the glorious flag of the people I 

In God, the just, 

We place our trust, 
To defend the flag of the people ! 

On board U. S. Trannport " J/aWon," Monday, Mav 13, 1861. 



12 FAITH AND FANCY. 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH 

A Ballad of '61. 
I. 

" Oh, mothw, have you heard tne news ?" 

" Oh, father, is it true V 
"Oh, brother, were I but a n;a?i" — 

" Oh, husband, they shall rue I" 
Thus, passionately, asked tlie boy, 

An(^ »iH)s thfi sister stm>]s»}. 
And thus the dear wife to tier mate, 

The words they could not choke. 
"The news! what news?" " Oh, bitter news— they've 

fired upon the flag — 
The flag no foreign foe could blast, the traitors down 
would drag." 

II. 
" The truest flag of liberty 

The world lias ever seen — 
The stars that shone o'er Washington 

And guided ga.llant Greene ! 
The white and crimson stripes which bode 

Success in peace and war, 
Are draggled, shorn, disgraced, and torn — 

Insulted star by star ; 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 13 

That flag which struggling men point to, rebuking kingly 

codes, 
The flag of Jones at Whitehaven, of Reid at Fayal 
Roads.'' 

III. 
" Eh, neighbor, can'st believe this thing ?" 

The neighbor's eyes grew wild ; 
Then o'er them crept a haze of shame, 

As o'er a sad, proud child ; 
His face grew pale, he bit his Up, 

Until the hardy skin, 
By passion tightened, could not hold 
The boiUng blood within ; 
He quivered for a moment, the indignant stupor broke, 
And the duties of the soldier in the citizen awoke. 

IV. 

On every side the crimson tide 

Ebbs quickly to and fro ; 
On maiden clieeks the horror speaks 

With fitful gloom and glow ; 
In matrons' eyes their feehngs rise, 

As when a danger, near. 
Awakes the soul to full control 
Of all that causes fear ; 
The subtle sense, the faith intense, of woman's heart and 

brain, 
Give her a prophet's power to see, to suffer, and main- 
tain. 



Through city streets the fever beats — 
O'er highways byways, borne — 

9 



14 FAITH AND FANCY. 

The boys grow men with madness, 

And the old grow young in scorn ; 
The forest boughs record the vows 

Of men, heart-sore, though strong ; 
Th' electric wire, with words of fire, 
The passion speeds along. 
Of traitor hordes and traitor swords from Natchez to 

Manassas, 
And like a mighty harp flings out the war-chant to the 
masses. 

VI. 

And into caverned mining pits 

The insult bellows down ; 
And up through the hoary gorges, 

Till it shouts on the mountain's crown : 
Then foaming o'er the table-lands, 

Like a widening rapid, heads ; 
And rolling along the prairies. 
Like a quenchless fire it spreads ; 
From workman's shop to mountain top there's mingled 

wrath and wonder. 
It appalls them like the lightning, and awakes them like 
the thunder. 



VII. 

The woodman flings his axe aside ; 

The farmer leaves his plough ; 
The merchant slams his ledger lids 

For other business now ; 
The artisan puts up his tools, 

The artist drops his brush, 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 15 

And joiiiing hands for Liberty, 
To Freedom's standard rush ; 
I'he doctor folds his suit of black, to fight as best he 

may. 
And e'en the flirting exquisite is " eager for the fray." 

VIII. 

The students leave their college rooms, 

Full deep in Greece and Rome, 
To make a rival glory 

For a better cause near home : 
The lawyer quits nis suits and writ?. 

The laborer liis hire. 
And in the thrilling rivalry 
The rich and poor aspire ! 
And party lines are lost amid the patriot commotion. 
As wanton streams grow strong and pure within the 
heart of ocean. 

IX. 

*.The city marts are echoless ; 

The city parks are thronged ; 
In country stores there roars and pours 

The means to riglit the wronged ; 
The town halls ring with mustering ; 

From holy pulpits, too. 
Good priests and preachers volunteer 
To show what men should do — 
To show that they who preach the truth and God above 

revere. 
Can die to save for man the blessings God has sent down 
here. 



16 FAITH AND FANCY. 



And gentle fingers everywhere 

The busy needles ply, 
To deck the manly sinews 

That go out to do or die ; 
And maids and mothers, sisters dear, 

And dearer wives, outvie 
Each other in the duty sad. 

That makes all say " Good-by'^ — 
The while in every throbbing heart that's pressed in fare- 
well kiss 
Arises pangs of hate on those who brought them all to 
this. 

XI. 

The mustering men are entering 
For near and distant tramps ; 
The clustering crowds are centering 

In barrack-rooms and camps ; 
There is riveting and pivoting. 

And furbishing of arms, 
And the willing marching, drilling, 
With their quick exciting charms, 
Half dispel the subtle sorrow that the women needs must 

feel, 
When e'en for Right their dear ones fight the Wrong with 
steel to steel. 



XII. 



With hammerings and clamorings. 

The armories are loud ; 
Toilsome clangor, joy, and anger. 

Like a cloud enwrap „..rV crowd 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 17 

Beltiug, buckling, cursing, clmckling, 

Sorting out their " traps" in throngs ; 
Some are packing, some knapsacking, 
Singing snatches of old songs ; 
Fifers finger, lovers linger to adjust a badge or feather. 
And groups of drummers vainly strive to reveille to- 
gether. 



XIII. 

And into many a haversack 

The prayer-book's mutely borne — 
Its well-thumbed leaves in faithfulness 

By wives and mothers worn — 
And round full many a pillared neck. 

O'er many a stalwart breast, 
The sweetheart wife's — the maiden love's 
Dear effigy's caressed. 
God knows by what far camp-fire may these tokens 

courage give, 
To fearless die for truth and home, if not for them tc 
live. 



XIV. 

And men who've passed their threescore years. 

Press on the ranks in flocks. 
Their eyes, like fire from Hecla's brow, 

Burn through their snowy locks *, 
And maimed ones, with stout hearts, persist 

To mount the belt and gun. 
And crave, with tears — while forced away — 

To march to Washington. 
2* 



18 FAITH AND FANCY. 

" Why should we not ? We love that flag ! Great 

God !" — they chokmg cry — 
" We're strong enough I We're not too old for oui 

dear land to die 1" 



XV. 

And in the mighty mustering, 

No petty hate intrudes, 
No rival discords mar the strength 

Of rising multitudes ; 
The jealousies of faith and clime 

Which fester in succes?, 
Give place to sturdy friendships 
Based on mutual distress ; 
For every thinking citizen who draws the sword, knows 

well 
The battle's for Humanity — for Freedom's citadel I 



XVI. 

0, Heaven ! how the trodden hearts, 

In Europe's tyrant world, 
Leaped up with new-born energy 
When that flag was unfurled I 
How those who suffered, fought, and died. 

In fields, or dungeon-chained. 
Prayed that the flag of Washington 
Might float while earth remained ! 
And weary eyes in foreign skies, still flash with fire anew. 
When some good blast by peak and mast unfolds that 
flag to view. 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 19 

XVII. 

And they who, guided by its stars, 

Sought here the hopes they gave, 
Are all aglow with pilgrim fire 

Their happy shrines to save. 
Here — Scots and Poles, Italians, Gauls, 

With native emblems trickt ; 
There — Teuton corps, who fought before 

Fur Freiheit undfur Licht ;^ 
While round the flag the Irish like a human rampart go 1 
They found Gead mille failthe^ here — they'll give it to 
the foe. 

XVIII. 

From the vine-land, from the Rhine-land, 
From the Shannon, from the Scheldt, 
From tjie ancient homes of genius. 
From the sainted home of Celt, 
From Italy, from Hungary, 

All as brothers join and come. 
To the sinew-bracing bugle. 
And the foot-propelling drum : 
Too proud beneath the starry flag to die, and keep secure 
The Liberty they dreamed of by the Danube, Elbe, and 
Suii-. 

XIX. 

From every hearth bounds up a heart. 

As spring from hill-side leaps, 
To give itself to those joroud streams 

That make resistless deeps I 
No book-rapt sage, for age on age, 

Can point to such a sight 



20 FAITH AND ?\NCY. 

As this deep throb, which woke from rest 
A people armed for fight. 
Peal out, ye bells, the tocsin peal, for never since the 

day 
When Peter roused the Christian world has earth seen 
such array. 

XX. 

Which way we turn, the eyeballs burn 

With joy upon the throng ; 
Mid cheers and prayers, and martial airs, 

The soldiers press along ; 
The masses swell and wildly yell, 

On pavement, tree, and roof. 
And sun-bright showers of smiles and flowers 
Of woman's love give proof. 
Peal out, ye bells, from church and dome, in rivalrous 

communion 
With the wild, upheaving masses, for the army of the 
Union ! 

XXI. 

Onward trending, crowds attending, 

Still the army moves — and still : 
Arms are clashing, wagons crashing 
In the roads and streets they fill ; 
O'er them banners wave in thousands, 

Round them human surges roar, 
Like the restless-bosomed ocean. 
Heaving on an iron shore : 
Cannons thunder, people wonder whence the endless river 

comes, 
With its foam of bristling bay'nets, and its cataracts of 
drums. 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH, 21 

XXII. 

" God bless the Union army !" 

That holy thought appears 
To symbolize the trustful eyes 

That speak more loud than cheers 
" God bless the Union army, 

And the flag by which it stands, 
May it preserve, with freeman's nerve, 
What freedom's God demands 1" 
Peal out, ye bells — ye women, pray ; for never yet went 

forth 
So grand a band, for law and land, as the muster of the 
North. 



22 FAITH AND FANCY 



THE PATRIOT MOTHER. 



When o'er the land the battle brcr>.d 

In freedom's cause was gleaming, 
And everywhere upon the air 

The starry flag was streaming, 
The widow cried unto her pride, 

" Go forth and join the muster ; 
Thank God, my son can bear a gun 

To crown his race with lustre ! 
Go forth I and come again not home, 

If by disgrace o'erpowered ; 
My heart can pray o'er hero's clay, 

But never clasp a coward I" 

II. 

"God bless thee, boy, my pride, my joy, 

My old eyes' light and treasure — 
Thy father stood 'mid flame and blood 

To fill the freeman's measure. 
His name thy name — the cause the same, 

Go join thy soldier brothers ! 
Thy blow, alone, protects not one, 

But thousands, wives and mothers. 
May every blessing Heaven can yield 

Upon thy arms be showered ! 
Come back a hero from the field, 

But never come a coward." 



soldier's song. SJ3 



SOLDIER'S SONG. 



Pd rather be a soldier 

In a gallant, glorious cause, 
To uphold a people's honor, 

Their liberty and laws, 
Than wearily and drearily 

To pass my life away, 
Living but for living's sake, 

And dying ev'ry da,y. 

Ghorus. — I'd rather be a soldier ! 

A tramping, camping soldier I 
A soldier away to the field 
Where the God of right above, 
Smiles upon the flag we love, 

As we fight, fall, but never yield. 

II. 

Pd rather be a soldier 

In the watchful bivouac, 
'Mid night alarms, and calls to arms, 

To meet the dawn's attack. 
Than slumber in the city's heart. 

In callous, blank repose. 



24 FAITH AKD FANCY 

When every man should be awake 
To face the nation's foes. 

I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 



III. 

I'd rather be a soldier, 

In the flashing, crashing van, 
And win the love of mankind. 

By the blow I strike for man, 
Than mope in subtle selfishness. 

With empty pleas for " Peace,'' 
While each delay to win the right 

But makes the wrong increase. 

I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 



IV. 

I'd rather be a soldier, 

'Mid the battle's rage and ire. 
With heart that mocks the sabre thrust, 

And soul that scoffs the fire. 
Than live to feel no glory 

In my nation, flag, and race — 
Oh, better fall to crown them all, 

Than live to their disgrace I 

I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 



V. 

Then forward, gallant comrades I 
Welcome any fate that comes ; 

We rise to freedom's bugle-blast, 
We step to freedom's drums : 



soldier's song. 25 

The God that gave us liberty, 

Will see us through the foam 
Of battle, while we bravely fight 

For our dear ones at home, 

rd rather be a soldier, etc. 
2 



FAITH AND FANCY 



GOD PRESERVE THE UNIOK 

I. 

Brothers, there are times when nations 

Must, like battle-worn men, 
Leave their proud, self-builded quiet 

To do service once again : 
When the banners blessed by fortune, 

And by blood and brain embalmed, 
Must re-throb the soul with feelings 

That long happiness hath calmed. 
Thus the Democratic faith that won 

The nation, now hath need 
To raise its ever stalwart arm, 

And save what twice it freed. 

So friends fill up 

The brimming cup 
In brotherly communion — 

Here's blood and blow 

For a foreign foe, 
And God preserve the Union, 

II. 

There are factions passion-goaded, 
There are turbulence and wrath, 

And swarthy dogmas bellowing 
Around the people's path ; 



GOD PRESERVE THE UNION 21 

There are false lights in the darkness, 

There are black hearts in the light, 
And hollow heads are mimicking 

The Jove-like people's might. 
But, ah ! the Democratic strength 

That smote an empire's brow, 
Can with its regnant virtues tame 

Mere home-made factions now. 

So friends let's band 

For fatherland — 
In brotherly communion, 

Let every mouth 

Cry " North and South,-' 
And God preserve the Union. 



III. 

While the young Repubhc's bosom 

Seems with rival passions torn — 
Growing from the very freedom 

Of the speech within it born ; 
Europe, in its haggard frenzy 

To behold no earthly sod, 
Where its white slaves may unbend them, 

Or bend but to Freedom's God — 
Europe madly hails the omen — 

Strains its bloodshot eyes to view 
A native treason toiling at 

The work it strove to do. 

So, friends, let's all 
Like a rampart wall — 
In granite-built communion. 



2S FAITH AND FANCY. 

Stand firmly proud, 
'Gainst the kingly crowd — 
And God preserve tbe Union. 

IV. 

Since that day, when frantic people 

Round the State House rose and fell, 
Like an angry ocean surging 

Round some rock-reared citadel — 
When the Quaker City trembled 

'Neath the arming people's tramp, 
And the bell proclaimed to iron men 

Each house in the land a camp — 
Democracy has kept that bell 

Still pealing sound on sound, 
Until its potent energy 

Has throbbed the wide earth round. 

So let it ring. 

So let it bring 
Us brotherly communion ; 

Here's heart and hand, 

For life and laud ! 
And God preserve the Union ! 



A BATTLE PRAYER. 29 



A BATTLE PRAYER. 



God of the righteous, God of the brave ! 
Strengthen our arms our country to save ; 
Lead us to victory's peace-giving charms : 
God of the righteous, strengthen our arms ! 



IT. 

God of the people's cause, God of the free ! 
From hearth and hill-side we look up to Thee ; 
Make us, when battle-clouds thunder and roll, 
Titans in body, and true men in soul. 

HI. 

God of our hopefulness, God of the right ! 
Be to us armor and courage in fight ! 
Lift us on valorous fervor to be 
Terror and wrath to the foes of the free I 

IV. 

God of humanity, God of the heart ! 
Let not the man in the soldier depart ; 
And when beneath us the ruthless foe reels, 
Teach us the mercy the true hero feels. 
3* 



30 FAITH AND FANCY. 



Gird up our loins then, Lord I for the truth, 
The safety of age, and the freedom of youth ; 
Leads us to victory's peace-giving charms : 
God of the righteous strengthen our arms 1 



REQUIEM FOR THE DEAD OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 31 



REQUIEM FOR THE DEAD OF THE IRISH 
BRIGADE. 

Come, let the solemn, soothing Mass be said, 
For the soldier souls of the patriot dead. 

Let the organ swell, and the incense burn. 
For the hero men who will ne'er return. 

Men who had pledged to this land their troth, 
And died to defend her, ere break their oath. 

But if high the praise, be as deep the, wail 
O'er the exiled sons of the warlike Q-ael. 

From their acts true men may eiamples reap ; 
And women bless them, and glorying, weep. 

Proud beats the heart while it sorrowing melts 
O'er the death-won fame of these truthful Celts. 

For the scattered graves over which we pray 
Will shine like stars on their race alway. 

Oh, what doth ennoble the Christian man. 
If not dying for truth in freedom's van ! 

What takes from Death all its terrors and gloom ? 
Conscience to feel Justice blesses the tomb ! 



32 FAITH AND FANCY. 

And oh! what doth build up a nation's weal 
But courage to fight for the truths we feel ! 

And thus did these braves, on whose graves we wait, 
Do all that make nations and races great. 



OREMUS. 

Ye living, your hearts combine 
In praise and prayer, to the heavenly shrine : 

Ye widowed and stricken, 

Your trustfulness quicken 
With faith in the Almighty Giver ; 

And may blessed repose 

Be the guerdon of those 
Who fell at Antietam and James's river, 
By the Rappahannock and Chickahominy ; 
Requiem ceternam dona eis, Domine ! 

May their souls on the Judgment-day arise ; 

Et lux perpetua luceat eis. 



REDEMPTION. 33 



REDEMPTION. 

' A sound heart is the life of the flesh."— Procerfea. 



Miser, see that hoard of gold — 

Mistress, view that dower — 

Artist, look at yon fair mould — 

Beauty, wealth, and power : 

There they are— but what are these ? 

False leaves decking sapless trees. 



Honesty for him hath naught — 

Truth for her no use — 
Yon fair shape no virtue brought — 
All are life's abuse : 
But like Christ, one pure heart's birth 
Brings redemption to an earth I 



34 FAITH AND FANCY. 



FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 

Ye tiny queens, lift up your pensive heads, 

And fear not that a magic feeUng weds 
The air about the student's chamber ; 

'Tis true these books inoculate the air 

With their intense divinity, 

And men sure in the rhythm of each mystic prayer 

The hopes and blessings of infinity : 
But ye may into all their secrets clamber, 

As little stars may wander through the skies, 

And find out all the bhss of Paradise. 

The poet and the plant are near allied ; 

Nature's best offspring, she of both the pride : 

So, fear thee not, nor fail to number, 

Amongst thy friends those stately quartos which — • 
Some standing upright to their proudest height. 
And some reclining in a tired plight, 

Like drows-eyed sentinels who laz'ly hitch 

Their sides to wakeful slumber — 

Gather around as if to guard the prize. 

That dainty hands and brightest eyes 

Had culled for me. Ye conjure up 

Like the swift shadow of a welcome comer. 
Or early buds that whisper us of summer — 

You fragrant rose and rustic buttercup, 



FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 35 

The pleasant presence of the picturesque, 

And light and artless, 

But dare I say the heartless 
Maid, who gave you to my musty desk. 

Like her, you're fair. 

And like her, too, you're tender, 

Light as May air, 

Commingled with June splendor, 
Joyous as Morning when he freshly gives 

A like rich mirth 
To all around that in his radiance lives 

In air or earth ; 
And which we love to foster as we stray, 

While yet the town 
Winks doubtful welcome to the god of day. 

In midnight's gown. 

Ah I I can picture how she tripped amid 

The little fay-ground where she tends her flowers, 
To woo ye, as ye childishly all hid 

Each others' smile, love-chained to natal bowers ; 
Yes, I can picture how she tripped along, 

Her clear laugh car'lling on the jealous air, 
Which, though unquiet, calmed to catch her song, 

And test its fragrance with her wild breath there. 

And then she, heedless of the list'ning vapors, 
Footed around to cull the richest stems. 

Here eyes a plant, then onward gayly capers. 
And here again, and there, for perfume gems ; 

Now choosing one, and now discarding ten. 

The while thoseten grow ripe her love-light quaffing. 



36 FAITH AND FANCY. 

And now she plucks a dainty pair, and then 
Her young and happy heart is wildly laughing. 

My dainty flowers, dwell ye on my desk. 

Among my choicest friends, and dear good-fellow books 
Dwell there to memorize the picturesque. 
And laughing, bright-eyed, fairy-tinted looks 
Of her who culled you from your fragrant nooks 
In her self-tended Eden : 
In your glee — 
Dwell, tender queens, to picture forth the maideu 
Who gave you unto me. 

How rich a thing becomes the merest leaf, 
When memories — that give the mind relief— 
Of love, of hope, ay even, or of grief, 
Are twined in fragrant bondage to it ! 
What various raptures whirl us as we view it ? 
Each rapture leaping up from thought's horizon, 
Like the rich clouds that fleck the ambient skies on 
Summer days between the noon and even- 
Golden and fantasque, sailing through bright heaven 
As richest thoughts through god-like poet's brain ; 
The music of whose full-toned purple strain 
Will be cast back from every cone of thought 
Th-at leaps delighted with the soul thus brought 
Into its lesser being, lighting some lesser still, 
Until wide prairies of reflected will 
Send up, like exhalations from the vernal 

Sun-besmitten and inspired sod, 
Their thanks which make the poet's dreams eternal. 

The poet does not dream — he lives with God, 
Who is the essence of all right and beauty — 



FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 37 

He does not dream, but lives a life of duty, 
So far above " realities" of Earth, that Earth 

With mind, like dagger to a point grown thin 
In peculation, will not see his worth, 

But calls his life a dream to shield its lifelong sin. 
And as I gaze on yon sweet leafy links 
Of thought, my too unguarded Fancy drinks 
Whole stoups of Hope, that frolic through my brain 
Like summer clouds in Evening's calm domain ; 
And they too like the poet's thoughts send back 
Reflected glory on their founder's track. 

While ye remain there I shall think it Night, 

Night calmly eloquent and grand ; 
And ye the lamps that shed their vesper light 

In the dim cloisters of the poet's land ; 
And when ye fade, I'll feel the silence parted, 

And Day, hot-headed, panting in my face, 
With words too broken for the gloomy-hearted 

To hang a hope on for his spirit's grace. 

4 



38 FAITH AND FANCY. 



A PHANTASY. 

I WAS dreaming, the other night, over my desk, 

All alone, 
And my thoughts held me still in a net arabesque 

Of my own ; 
And, as Joy at its height held in silence, I sat, 

When a chord 
My soul's yearning portals there came ringing at, 

And I heard 
A peal of sweet maid-laughing tones : and I listened 

And gazed ; 
When out from the silence a pair of eyes glistened I 

I raised 
My hands to my eyes, which felt doubtful of vision. 

Forbear, 
Ye Gods of the Fancy ! what features elysian 

Were there ! 
An eye, bright as Spring after kissing the rain, 

And a voice, 
With the richness of Psyche's and Flora's wild strain, 

Did rejoice ! 
And leaped its sweet carols my poor heart a-through. 

From a mouth 
Rich as strawberry juice, or the rose 'neath the dew 

In the South ! 
And her form bright as hope, seemed to beckon me on. 



A PHANTASY. 39 

And the power 
Of my own language came, and I spoke ... all was gone 
Save afloioer. 

Why Fancy — why Beauty — whatever thou art, 

Dost thou chain, 
Promethean like, to the rock of my heart 

My wild brain ? 
Oh, tender soul, tell me what likeness thou'lt rear. 

In thy power, 
^Tween a Jove-laughing sprite of a maiden so fair 

And a flower ? 



40 FAITH AND FANCY. 



MINA. 



Mina's eyes are dark as sorrow, 
Mina's eyes are bright as morrow — 
Morrow symbols Hope alway ; 
And a soul-lit radiance flashes 
Out between their silken lashes, 
As from out the sable fringes of the midnight leaps the 



Mina's hair is black as madness, 
Mina's hair is soft as gladness — 

Gladness true is soft and low ; 
And its heavy richness ponders 
O'er her brow, as student wanders 
By some bardic temple, wordless with the homage he'd 
bestow. 

III. 

Mina's brow is clear as amber, 
Mina's brow is calm as chamber 

Where God lives in what seems dead ; 
And its gentleness is giving 
E'er a mute excuse for living 
On in passive grandeur, careless of the fame its thoughts 
might spread. 



MINA. 41 

IV. 

Mina's mouth is ripe as study, 
Mina's mouth is full and ruddy — 

Tempting as the August peach ; 
And its sweet contentment routing 
Off a melancholy pouting, 
Welcomes laughter to the portals where the trivial ne'er 
can reach. 

V. 

Mina's heart is pure as childhood, 
Mina's heart is fresh as wildwood, 

Where each tendril dials God ; 
And its radiant blessings centred 
On her face, have ever entered 
Through her eyes those happy mortals who within their 
mission trod. 

VI. 

Mina's hand is sure to capture ! 
Mina's touch is weird — its rapture 

Is electric, seeming numb ; 
And her spirit on the minute 
Thrills you with the calm joy in it. 
And vibrating you to eloquence, compels you to be dumb. 
4* 



42 FAITH AND FANCY. 



"REMEMBER WE ARE FRIENDS." 

" No matter what comes about, our friendship must in)t be severed." 
I. 

Remejiber we are friends, dear girl, though far apart and 

lonely. 
And though the sunlight of your smile is now a mem'ry 

only— 
And though the love I dreamed my own is tombed 

where sorrow blends 
The hopings of the stormy past — remember we are 

friends I 

II. 

Mayhap you'll feel the ocean world too chill, your life- 
shore beating — 

Mayhap your heart, like mine, may see its darhng hope 
retreating — 

God grant you joy ! — but who may know what comes 
when daylight ends ? 

And should e'er morrow bring you gloom — remember 
we are friends. 

III. 
And though I'd prize your love beyond all womanly 

affection. 
And though a hope will linger yet to feed my heart's 

dejection. 



REMEMBER WE ARE FRIENDS. 43 

I'd rather l^.ave thy young heart blessed, in blessing 

where it bends — 
Forget me as a lover, but — remember we are friends ! 

IV. 

I'll meet thee yet beside the hearth — that hearth that i 

another's, 
And my still young gray hairs shall joy o'er faces like 

their mother's ! 
Mayhap he'll twit my loneliness, and boast what marriage 

sends. 
Unknowing how I once thought, but — remember we are 

friends. 



44 FAITH AND FANCY. 



TO AN ARTIST. 

The old man's drifted to the soundless sea — 
Gone back to earth and heaven : as a perfume, he 
Warmed mto life by light rose into sky's immensity. 

Blondell, I have to thank thee, and thy art 
For every tremor that awakes my heart 
From gloom, when gazing on his pictured counterpart. 

Your pencil's magic drew up to his face 
His innate radiances, as the sunlight's grace 
Makes voluble the innate seed in flowers on earth's placid 
space. 

His fair round forehead, like a concave glass, 
Enlarged all good it witnessed to a mass. 
The convex lessening ill, so that none ever saw it pass. 

His kind, love-typifying face is here 
With all its fond intensity ; it would appear 
The great old man himself had just but ceased to rear 

The vocal solace of his thoughts around. 
And dropped off into silence, while the sound 
Of his own blessed words yet o'er his features wound : 



TO AN ARTIST. 45 

Ay, in the lustre of their purity, 
As noiseless mists about a fountain's glee 
Hover on the air, and then in wavy sun-bows flee. 

Like some great diver, you have made a bound 
Into his nature, loving, vast, profound. 
And scattered o'er the canvas the gems profuse you 
found. 

He was the sun that Kt my childhood on. 
And smiled upon me as on earth the sun ; 
But now your canvas, like a moon, reflects the light that's 



But on my morn no Sun shall say to Earth 
" God bless you !" as oft he : his song, his mirth 
Have gone with evening and the birds — all here is voice- 
less dearth. 

I cannot weep, I have such stupor drank ; 
Enough, like sunless day I am all blank ; 
He left me drunk with Love, and guideless have I sank. 

All his quaint humors, all his cheering sense, 
Ghost through my brain, that, vague with wild intents 
Grasps at them all, and finds but shadowy cerements. 

A thousand questions crowd upon my tongue. 
With thousand answers springing them among ; 
For he was of me, and his thoughts like mantles o'er me 
hung. 



46 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Mankind lost more than I did wlien he plied 
His soul's white wings for heaven — though my pride 
And guide left me and mine unsolaced when he died. 

God's noblest work evanished when he fled, 
This great world missed an honest man's meek tread 
The hour it opened to receive my father's body — dead. 

Sept. 23, 1853. x 



LILLA. 



LILLA. 



Lovely Lilla, why keep smiling ? 
All my path to gloom beguiling ; 
As your mouth its bright joy flashes, 
Every ripple o'er me dashes — 
Makes me helpless while I gaze ou 
Nature's acted diapason ; 
But the bhss a bane instills — 
Lilla smiles while Lilla kills. 

II. 

Ah ! those eyes with rapture thrill me- 
Take them off, or else they'll kill me ; 
But not yet, for there's about them 
That to make me die without them I 
Dear, remember what you're doing, 
You are killing while I'm wooing — 
If you close those eyes of blue, 
Don't you know you close mine too ? 

III. 

Such an earthly, heavenly, human, 
Lovely, wicked, artless woman 



48 FAITH AND FANCY. 

As you, Lilla, lights our blindness 
Rarely here, to kill with kindness ! 
Every glance both wins and wounds me- 
Life or Death in you surrounds me — 
While one word all life would give, 
Had you the heart to make me Uve. 



HAUNTED. 49 



HAUNTED. 

I AM haunted by a spirit, 

Everywhere I go ; 
That I'm near it, yet not near it, 

I too sadly know. 

When I'm hushed and sorrow-laden, 

'Tis a solace there ; 
When my heart would clasp its maideu 

Figure — it is air. 
Now deluded, now hope-nurtured — 

I am cursed and blessed, 
Till I crave for this o'er-tortured 

Frame, eternal rest. 

Yet the spirit looms about me. 

Like a thought decreeing. 

As I from it — it without me — 
Cannot have a being. 

I am in the city's mazes, 

'Mid ten thousand men — 

There the spirit's sweet, sad face is 
Smiling, just as when, 

In the midnight, it from study 
All my soul has drawn ; 
5 



50 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Or when it, at morning ruddy, 
Smiles a rival dawn. 

Sometimes it is sad and lonely — 

Sometimes like a psalm, 
A sacred, solemn joy — this only 

When /'m very calm ; 
Sometimes 'tis as bright as dew, that 

Pushed from opening bud, 
Steals the light it first falls through, that 

Gilds it ere it kiss the sod ; 

Sometimes 'tis a gloomy grandeur — 
Sorrow unconfessed — 

Whose loud silence would command your 
Life to calm its breast ; 

Sometimes smiling as a dreaming 

Child — the thoughts, alas. 
Of the soul on lips are beaming 

That they cannot pass ; 
Sometimes — but, heart, some feature 

Bless in silent prayer I 
All times seeming — 'tis some creature 

Rare, exceeding fair I 

So, two shadows' dim distraction 
Dial every motion ; — 

One, which guides my body's action, 
One, my soul's devotion. 



love's imagination. 51 



LOVE'S IMAGINATION. 



Where the mist is list'ning 

To the stoic hills, 
Where the spray is glist'ning 

O'er the joyous rills, 
Where the budding flowers 

Nodding by the streams, 
Look like infants waking 

From their rosy dreams; 
There may hearts grow fonder, 
There may poet ponder. 
There may fancy squander. 

All its jewels rare, 
But there I may not wander 

If my love's not there. 



Where the tall pines shiver, 
When the winter's breath 

Wraps the once glad river 
Into icy death ; 

Where the caverns labor 
With a restless pray'r, 



62 FAITH AND FANCY. 

When the hunted ocean 
Seeks a shelter there; 
There, though desolation, 
Mocks all contemplation. 
Love's imagination 

Mellows place and time, 
And in its own creation 
Makes the gloom sublime 



celia's tea. 53 



MAY GOD BLESS US.' 



Lady mine/ say it ever, pray it ever, it hath meaning, 
For the lowly, for the holy, and to all on virtue leaning. 
But from thy lips to me it hath a hope all else above. 
For God is love, and truly blesses those who truly love. 

II. 

Love's the secret of existence ! What are vineyards — 

spacious portals — 
To one happy tear, one honest blush, that blends two 

trusting mortals ? 
Oh, he's infidel, who loves not, to himself and God above, 
For God is love, and truly blesses those who truly love. 



CELIA'S TEj^. 

Celia makes such brain-enlivening tea, 

That when one's ta'en the draught celestial up, 

He feels so happy, that it oft struck me, 

She must have poured her heart into the cup. 



6t FAITH AND FANCY. 



A NEW LIFE. 



Is it fancy, am I dreaming, 

Do I tread the realms of faery — 
Do my hopings mock my wild heart with the echoes of 
itself ; 
Is my soul lit by the beaming 
Of your radiant face, fair Lilla ? 
Or, am I witched, like pilgrim, by the lagoon's midnight 
elf? 

II. 

Sweet words are singing o'er me. 

And beside me and before me, 
Yet I fear to think them truthful, lest I wake to find me 
wrong; 

And the bliss of the first minute. 

When my heart caught them within it, 
Would woo me to eternal sleep, to ever dream such song. 



God is loving — God is jealous. 
And we're every mortal fashioned 
In the likeness of the Moulder I and our sympathies so 
bent, 



A NEW LIFE. 65 

Can my words be over zealous, 
Or my love be too impassioned ? 
Xo, I cannot outstrip nature, though I fail to be content 

IV. 

I have had my dreams of glory, 

And have quaffed my youthful chalice — 
What bitter dregs lay thickening underneath its starry 
foam ? 
And my hfe broke, like the story 
Of that oriental palace, 
Whose magic marble fabric sank, and left no trace of 
home. 

V. 

In my thoughts' dim, lonely prison, 
Where I dwelt, a voice has risen. 
As the angel's unto Peter, giving comfort, hope, and 
cheer ; 
And so full of hght's the tremor. 
It now pulses through the dreamer, 
He'd bless the thought that chains him to have that 
angel near. 

VI. 

Was your heart so sympathetic 
That it caught my words unspoken, 

As they welled up, seeking utterance love-confused to 
very fear ? 
Was it you that said " I love thee" — 
Was it I that said " I love thee ;" 

Or, did we each the other's heart unburden to the ear ? 



56 FAITH AND FANCY. 

VII. 

When you twined your arms about me 
Saying life was dark without me — 

Tliat 7 was the one comforter you prayed of God to 
give- 
That among the thousands fleeing 
Past, you knew me as that being ; 

My heart, beneath the revelation, paused to say " I live !" 

VIII. 

There's a strange new life upon me, 
With a clarion-toned suffusion 
Of joy, that cannot sound itself with words of mortal 
speech ; 
But it is no fancy won me, 

No mere student-bred delusion ; 
'Tis thy vatic words that make a dual future in my reach. 

IX. 

What a bounteously decreeing 
Gift hath love, when it receiving 
Love for love, transfigures us to things undreamed be- 
fore ? 
Now I've two lives in my being. 
You have two lives in your living. 
And yet we have but one dear life between us evermore. 



THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY. 51 



THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY 

A Birth-day Ope. 

On the middle day of the middle month 

Of the heavenly-fashioned summer, 
When vines were scaling the antique eaves, 
And earth lay in shade under motionless leaves. 
And the sap of the sod. 
By the blessing of God, 
Ran leaping and romping through branch-woven bowers, 
Was tittering in tendrils and laughing in flowers : 
Like young happy children love-linked to each other. 
Who spring from to brighten, 
And clinging to lighten. 
With ever fresh pride, the rich breast of their mother. 

In such a midday of the middle month 

Of the golden-dowered summer, 
My better angel was sent from above, 
Born to the Earth with her mission of love ; 
And Earth, with the favors of rich July, 

Arrayed the gentle comer. 

The mingled radiance of the illumined space 
Centred on her face. 
With the blue of the skies 
Were tinct her eyes, 



58 FAITH AND FANCY. 

And the staid and holy air 
Filled her with prayer ; 
The fruitage of the Earth 
Gave her ripe mirth, 
And the myriad floral dyes 
Numberless shades of pleasantries ; 
The mighty oak outstretched its arms at length, 
Standmg strong sponsor for her strength, 
And the trustful vine 
Taught her to entwine 
Her soul around the strong to beautify it : 
The conscious heat of noon lent her full power to defy it 

The freshened dawn, in night-escaped security. 
Thrilled her fresh heart with clarion tones of purity : 
The evening breeze 
Brought her revivifying ease ; 
The half-parched streams, with mutual assistance, 
Made a flush river to teach her mind persistence ; 
And crowds of wealthy humble bushes quaint 
Gave her their unambitious birthright — self-restraint. 
The ash upon the mountain's rugged side 
Told her in life and liberty to pride ; 
And the yew, bending its melancholy head, 
Taught her to weep the dead. 
The wild plants of the wood 
Showed her the weal of solitude. 
And preached of modesty in their fresh enamels ; 
The lightning, leaping from its ebon trammels. 
Showed her, as it unfurled, 
The electric lord and servant of the world. 
The rapid thunder, that in hot July 
Strikes earth with all the ordnance of the sky, 



THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY. 59 

Rolled its unseen artilleries 
Through the black gorges of those weird Cordilleras 

Of cloud which mock imagination — 
Poured its mysterious majesty of sound 
The god-child of its favored month around, 

And woke the drowsy day to hearty acclamation 

Ah me, so tended was this tender creature 

Within by heavenly, without by earthly nature. 

She grew a being strong without alloy. 

To bless in sorrow, to sustain in joy — 

In wealth be calm, in poverty be rich, 

Until one questioned with her w^hich was which. 

Within the world, she is so much above it 

She lessens not herself, nor it to love it ; 

With faith surrounding, leading all things human, 

At once a loving wife and trustful woman. 

The anniversary of her natal day 

Is rung, by the chimes, to the times passed away. 

I pray of Heaven, which has vouchsafed to me 
The guardianship of such condensed variety 
As the dear Past, to let the Future be 
SuflFused with Love, sublimed by Piety 



July 15th. 



60 FAITH Ax\D FANCr. 



BREASTING THE WORLD. 



Many years have burst upon my forehead, 
Years of gloom and heavy freighted grief ; 

And I have stood them as against the horrid 
Angry gales, the Peak of Teneriflfe. 



II. 

Yet if all the world had storm and sorrow, 
You had none, my better self, Lenore, 

My toil was as the midnight seeking morrow, 
You moon-like lit the way I struggled o'er. 

III. 
Though as a cataract my soul went lashing 

Itself through ravines desolate and gray. 
You made me see a beauty in the flashing, 

And with your presence diamonded the spray. 

IV. 

Then, Lenore, though we have grown much older- 
Though our eyes were brighter when we met, 

Still let us feel, shoulder unto shoulder 
And heart to heart, above the world yet I 



AT NIAGARA. 61 



AT NIAGARA 



THE EAPLDS. 



In broken lines, like ghosts of buried nations, 
Struggling beneath their white and tangled palls, 

They leap and roar to Earth their exaltations, 
And Earth e'en trembles as each spectre falls. 

II. 

With strength that gives solemnity to clangour. 
With quaint immensity that strangles mirth, 

Like mortal things they roar to time then* angjr, 
Like things immortal they disdain the Earth. 

III. 

They bound — as dallying in their gorgeous West, 
In forest cradles and in parent mountains. 

They heard old Ocean throb his regal breast 

And call his vassals — the cascades and fountains. 

IV. 

From crag to crag they leap and spread the sound, 
Through gorge and wood their flashing banners motion, 

Till here in frantic rivalry they bound, 

These mighty white-plumed cohorts, for the ocean. 
C 



G2 FAITH AND FANCY. 

V. 

Surging along the pale battalions muster, 

Crowding each other, till the strongest springs 

A-top his fellows, with heroic lustre, 

And dares the deeds, like Yiking, that he sings. 

VI. 

Like men, the Rapids, born amid restless valor, 
Flash o'er their foes with many a frothened spasm, 

And linking all in pomp's majestic pallor, 

Leap like ten thousand Romans down the chasm I 



THE FALLS. 



There is an awful eloquence around — 

Like earthquake underneatli the dreamful pillows 
Of some great town, that deemed its strength profound 

And wakes on worse than frantic Ocean's billows. 



The mists, like shadowy cathedrals rise, 

And through the vapory cloisters prayers are pouring 
Such as ne'er sprang to the eternal skies. 

From old Earth's passionate and proud adoring. 

III. 

There is a voice of Scripture in the flood, 
With solemn monotone of glory bounding, 



AT NIAGARA. 6S 



Making all else an awe-hushed solitude 
To hear its everlasting faith resounding. 



IV. 



There is a quiet on my heart like death, 

My eyes are gifted with a strange expansion, 

As if they closed upon my life's last breath, 
And oped to measure the eternal mansion. 



I see so much I fear to trust my vision, 
I hear so much I doubt my mortal ear, 

I feel so much, my soul in strong submission 
Bends in a silent, death-like rapture here. 



64 FAITH AND FANCY. 



SHANE'S HEAD. 



ScRtiR— Before Dublin CanUe. Night. A clansman of Shane O'AViir.'i dis- 
covers his chief's head upon a pole. 



God's wrath upon the Saxou! may they never know the 

pride, 
Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spears beside ; 
When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave. 
Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his 

grave. 
May every light from Cross of Christ that saves the heart 

of man, 
Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon 

clan ; 
For sure, O God ! — and you know all whose thought for 

all sufficed, — 
To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another Christ. 



Is it thus, Shane the haughty ! Shane the vahant ! that 
we meet — 

Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to 
defeat ; 

Have I no chief — or you no clan, to give us both de- 
fence. 

Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence ? 



65 



Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle- 
tower, 

Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, aud thy brow seems rough 
with power ; 

Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treach'ry 
stung, 

Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery 



III. 

That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of 

Columbkill, 
Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks 

of Derry Hill ; 
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and 

to knaves, 
And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. 
The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met 

their ears. 
And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his 

stormy cheers. 
Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-ciianting it 

your tongue. 
Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court 

among. 

IV. 

Just think, Shane ! the same moon shines on Liflfey 

as on Foyle, 
And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to 

despoil ; 

6* 



66 FAITH AND FANCY, 

And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and 
ours, 

A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dub- 
lin towers. 

Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still — 

My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours, Hwas yours ! 
to keep or kill. 

And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief, — your life, your 
soul, your pride, — 

But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane — with proud 
O'Neill it died. 

V. 

You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as 

Spanish steel. 
But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief — 

O'Neill ? 
Who reared aloft the "Bloody Hand" until it paled the 

sun. 
And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done. 
He was " turbulent" with traitors — he was " haughty" 
^ with the foe — 

He was " cruel," say ye Saxons ? Ay ! he^ dealt ye blow 

for blow I 
He was " rough" and " wild," and who's not wild, to see 

his hearthstone razed ? 
He was " merciless as fire" — ah, ye kindled him, — he 

blazed I 
He was ''proud:" yes, proud of birthright, and because 

he flung away 
Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mock- 
ing spray. 



Shane's head. 67 

He was wild, insane for vengeance, — ay ! and preached 

it till Tyrone 
Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Red hands" to clutch 

their own. 

VI. 

*'The Scots are on the border, Shane" — ye saints, he 

makes no breath — 
I remember when that cry would wake him up almost 

from death : 
Art truly dead and cold ? O Chief I art thou to Ulster 

lost? 
"Dost hear, dost hear ? By Randolph led, the troops 

the Foyle have crossed I" 
He's truly dead I he must be dead! nor is his ghost 

about — 
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a 

shout : 
The pale face droopeth northward — ahl his soul must 

loom up there, 
By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or 

Bann the Fair ! 
I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, 

proud Shane, 
In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its 

hate again I 



(■)8 FAITH AND FANCY. 



SAINT ANNE'S WELL.' 



A DOWN the loved valley of sweet Glan-nis-mole, 
The Dodder's wild waters in bright rapture roll ; 
And woo the brown heath in its winding career, 
Like a young lover stealthily pressing his dear : 
Or yet, like the red Indian tracing the spot, 
Where the white man has ravished his primeval cot ; 
And it steals and it foams, half in fear, half in joy. 
Like a girl all beauty, all pride like a boy. 
Looming over this valley, where Solitude reigns, 
In all the wild stillness that Nature enchains, 
Kippure has his throne, — where defying the gale, 
Castle-Kelly enwraps with weird shadows the vale, — 
His head in the clouds, as though bound with a crown, 
His sceptre the rays of the sun streaming down. 
His courtiers, Bal-mannoch, Cornaun, See-Finane, 
From the Brakes to green Tallaght he boasts his domain : 
And the Golden Spears, glistening like sentinels, stand 
Near the throne of the chief of this bright valley-land 
With his face to the Liffey, his back to Glancree, 
Echo sings, as bard should, of his proud chieftaincy ; 
And the wind sw^eeping down — like the gray wizard 

powers 
Of Homer, or OssiaUj that Homer of ours — 



SAINT ANNE's well. ()9 

Tlirills the heather, like harp-strings, that vibrating loud, 

Makes invisible chorus between cliff and cloud, 

And hovers with many a mystical rann 

O'er the fountain of goodness — the Well of St. Anne. 

II. 

The well calmly springs on the wild brocken side. 
Like a tear on the cheek of a soul sanctified — 
A sister of charity, given by bliss 
To cure with its virtues, and cool with its kiss I 
And dear is this valley ! — ah, yes, ever dear 
Are the scenes that are linked with a smile or a tear — 
Tliat thrilled us with pleasure, or filled us with pain, 
In the noonday of life, and youth's royal domain ! 
Wliat can be more dear than that one lonely place. 
Where youth met its reflex in some young loved face ? 
Saw the tremors, and wooings, the kissings, and then 
Saw the quarrels and sobs, yea, and kissing again ; 
Where the vale was our study — our music the brooks — • 
The graveyard our library — tombstones our books ; 
4nd the Ruin, a monitor graybeard profound. 
Full of pride in his charge of the records around. 
And our Wells — holy Wells I that our loved legends link- 
Making sinew and soul of our past glory drink — 
To the heroes that fought, and the lances that sprung 
As the sage counselled battle, or poet war sung ! 
They are dear to our hearts : and remind dreaming man 
Of the Action he's heir to ! — loved Well of St. Anne. 

III. 

Its waters are clear, and as pure as the soul 

Of the saint that endowed it. Beneath a green knoll 



70 FAITH AND FANCY. 

It peacefully slumbers in hallowed repose, 

Aud though always brimming, it never o'erflows ; 

For a sidelong trickle leads off the blest flow, 

When its breast is too full, to the Dodder below ; 

And skirts by the little church Kilmosantan, 

Where the green ivy close the old ruin doth span, 

And clings hke a lover, whose constancy wages 

A war with old Time — growing fonder through ages I 

On these lonely waters the saint left a spell, 

Which faith have the people, and thence to the well 

They fly for its draughts ; for the power Saint Anne 

Bestowed on the spring was, that if mortal man 

Was maimed, ill, but faith had, he'd surely get ease 

If he creep from the church to the well on his knees. 

Methinks few e'er try — for devious the path 

To the sickling or sage ; and the maimed one who hath 

Strength eno' to proceed, needs less the spell, than 

Stout patience he'd want to suit goodly Saint Anne. 

IV. 

Sweet Yale I Holy Well I shall this heart e'er forget, 
This mind to thee die, or my sun of thought set 
On the days I have lingered beside thy clear tide. 
Or with those my heart clung to, clomb thy hill side ? 
Pointing out the old raths, where the sage peasant told 
Me, the fairies and spreethauns their wild revels hold ; 
When I merrily laughed, and he solemnly chid. 
Adjuring me gravely, to " mind what I did," 
Lest the ** wee folk" in vengeance should give me a stroke. 
Then I danced on the rath, half in doubt, half in joke, 
And he, shaking his head, strolled away, chiding still, 
And praying, " Heaven help my irreverent will." 
Shall those scenes pass away, when afar I am gone ? 



SAINT ANNE'S WELL. 

No ! as steel to the magnet, I ever cling on ! 
No ! my heart never shall let that picture decay ; 
Though I float the St. Lawrence, the famed thrush's lay 
Of Glan-nis-mole's valley shall still charm mine ear, 
And the wild Dodder's carol yet louder I'll hear 
Than Niagara's chorus : the ivy's fresh love, 
To my heart, as its temple, wherever I rove. 
Will cling like a mantle to warm its veins. 
With love for its youth's home, while feeling remains : 
The church where I've dreamed all the summer days fair, 
The cascades that burst like some wild Irish air — 
Which flashing and fading, its force is scarce felt. 
The passions so quick into low murmurs melt — 
The furze-gilded uplands — the brier-bound brooks. 
The moss-mottled crags, where the sun his last looks — 
The Brakes, where the hills, shutting Wicklow out, stand, 
Like the bulwarks and guards of some Bard's promised 

land — 
And each hill, whose gray brow, bound with heath pur- 
ple-brown. 
Seems a king with his iron but silken-cased crown — 
Ah 1 where'er I may roam, these in fancy I'll scan. 
And my mouth shall be still cool with drauo^hts froii 
Saint Anue. 



FAITH AND FANCY. 



WINTER THOUGHTS. 

I.— THE DEAD YEAR. 

I. 
Yet another chief is carried 

From life's battle on his spears, 
To the great Yalhalla cloisters 

Of the ever-living years. 



Yet another year — the mummy 
Of a warlike giant, vast — 

Is niched within the pyramid 
Of the ever-growing past. 

III. 
Years roll through the palm of Ages, 

As the dropping ros'ry speeds 
Through the cold and passive fingers 

Of a hermit at his beads. 

IV. 

One year falls and ends its penance, 

One arises with its needs, 
And 'tis ever thus prays Nature, 

Only telling years for beads. 



WINTER THOUGHTS. 73 

V. 

Years, like acorns from the branches 

Of the giant oak of Time, 
Fill the earth with healthy seedlings 

For a future more sublime. 



II.— A FROSTY NIGHT. 



As one that worketh miracles, the moon 
Transfigures all the silence into light ; 
And filagreed with frost the hill-sides white. 
And sloping uplands flecked with drifted snow, 
Seem, through their statued chill, to whine a lo\^ 

And plaintive croon. 

II. 

The groves that were in summer-time all song. 
Profuse in clear soprano tones of glee, 
Now hoarsely dull, hke voice-cracked choirs dree 
Their shivering existences, and make 
Night mournful, as the dirges slowly take 

Their woes along. 

III. 

The mountain gorges, that like arteries ran 

With June-breath, hot as blood, are weirdly numb, 
And here and there the trickling streamlets come 
And break the frost in many a wild device. 
Struggling a-through thin barricades of ice 

That all the gullies span. 

•7 



FAITH AND FANCY. 



The lonely trees, scant-robed in crispy snow, 
Stretching their bare arms upward to the sky, 
Seem like poor buried souls, who did not die, 
That waking, burst their sepulchres, and strive. 
With piteous plaints, to prove themselves alive 

To their mad woe. 



V. 

As o'er the ghostly landscape peers the sight, 
The moonlight teaming an unbroken flood — 
The stars that in their planet coteries brood 
Over earth's solitude — the distant trackless sea — 
Roll to Thought's shore the ebbless tide — Eternity 

This vast, pale night. 



III.— SNOW ON THE GROUND. 



Like a corpse the stark earth lieth. 
Free from toiling Life's deceits ; 

And the Air, grown pale from watching, 
Swathes her round with snowy sheets. 

II. 
Fold on fold wraps mutely round her. 

Her calm breast no life-hope rears. 
And she seems from heaven's weeping, 

To be tombed in frozen tears. 



WINTER THOUGHTS. 75 



III. 

But though rigid cold her bosom, 
Gone her music — fled her bloom ; 

Still the shrouded Earth, like Juliet, 
Is but tranced within the tomb. 



IV.— SUMMER ALWAYS. 



While the wind is fiercely howling, 

Lilla dear, come anear — 
While the wolf-like wind is howling. 
Round the cottage gables prowlmg, 
And the wintry clouds are scowling 

On the mere : 
Let us, waking up the embers, 

Love and youth and books revere, 
Feel that howling bleak Decembers 
Cannot make a winter here, 
Lilla dear. 



II. 

While the outside world is shivering, 

Lilla dear, come anear — 
While the beggar Earth is shivering, 
Like a miser, old and quivering. 
Unto Time his debt delivering 

Of the year : 
Let us, clinging close together, 
Though perchance we drop a tear 



16 FAITH AXD FANCY. 

O'er the past, find summer weather 
E'er in living, loving here, 
Lilla dear. 



v.— FACES IN THE FIEK 

I AM gazing all the night-time, 

At the faces in the fire — 
Whilst the roaring rain-storm dashes 
On the shaking window-sashes, 
And the wakeful aerial ocean 
Wracks the forest that it wrestles ; 
And the sea, with wrathful motion, 
Shakes and breaks the lab'ring vessels, 
Till the crowded limbers, surging. 
Send the people, wildl}^ splurging, 

In the waves, till they expire. 

II. 

And I think how like the life-flame 

Are those red shapes I admire : — 
First, they're merely indicated. 
Then, like childhood, grow elated 
With the fresh heat that imbues them, 
Then like youth hot flames infuse them. 
Then, like men, a steady burning 
Glows a-through them, till the turning 
Point of being, makes gray gashes, 
And they crumble into ashes 
Like mere faces in the fire. 



WASHIXGTOX. 77 



WASHINGTON." 



Art in its mighty privilege receives 

Painter and painted in its bonds forever ; 

A girl by Raphael in his glory lives — 

A Washington unto his Hmner gives 

The Ages' love to crown his best endeavor 

II. 

The German Emperor, with whose counterpart 
The gorgeous Titian made the world acquainted, 

Boasted himself immortal by the art ; 

But he who on thi/ features cast his heart. 
Was made immortal by the head he painted ! 

III. 

For thou before whose tinted shade I bow, 

Wert sent to show the wise of every nation 
How a young world might leave the axe and plough 
To die for Truth ! So great, so loved wert thou. 
That he who touched thee won a reputation. 

IV. 

The steady fire that battled in thy breast. 

Lit up our gloom with radiance, good though gory ; 



78 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Like some red sun which the dull earth caressed 
Into a wealthy adoration blest 

To be its glory's great reflected glory. 

V. 

Thou — when the earthly heaven of man's soul — 

The heaven of home, of liberty, of honor — 
Shuddered with darkness — didst the clouds uproll 
And burst such light upon the nation's dole 
That every State still feels thy breath upon her. 

VI. 

Could I have seen thee in the Council — bland, 

Firm as a rock, but as deep stream thy manner ; 
Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, 
Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand. 

And squadrons rolling round thee like a banner ! 

VII. 

Could I have been with thee on Princeton's morn ! 

Or swelled with silence in the midnight muster ; 
Beheld thee ever, every fate adorn — 
Or on retreat, or winged victory borne — 

The warrior throbbing with the sage's lustre : 

VIII. 

Could I have shouted in the wild acclaim 

That rent the sky o'er Germantown asunder ; 
Or when, like cataract, 'gainst the sheeted flame 
You dashed, and chill'd the victor-shout to shame, 
On Monmouth's day of palsy-giving thunder : 



WASHINGTON. *?9 

IX. 

Could I have followed thee through town and camp ! 

Fought where you led, and heard the same drums rattle ; 
Charged with a wild biit passion-steadied tramp, 
And witnessed, rising o'er death's ghastly damp. 

The stars of empire through the clouds of battle ! 

X. 

Oh ! to have died thus 'neath thy hero gaze. 

And won a smile, my bursting youth would rather 

Thau to have lived with every other praise, 

having the blessing of those epic days 

When you blest all, and were the nation's father. 

XI. 

The autumn sun caresses Yernon's tomb, 

Whose presence doth the country's honor leaven : 

Two suns they are, that dissipate man's gloom ; 

For one's the index to Earth's free-born bloom, 
The other to our burning hope in Heaven I 

XII. 

Thy dust may moulder in the hollow rock ; 

But every day thy soul makes some new capture ! 
Nations unborn will swell thy thankful flock, 
And Fancy tremble that she cannot mock 

Thy history's Truth that will enchant with rapture. 

XIII. 

How vain the daring to compute in words 

The height of homage that the heart would render I 

And yet how proud — to feel no speech affords 

Harmonious measure to the subtle chords 

That fill the soul beneath thy placid splendor ! 



Sti FAITH AND FANCY 



THE PLAINT OF THE WILD-FLOWER 



I WAS not born for the town, 
Where all that^s pure and humble's trodden down 

My home is in the woods — 
The over-arching, cloistered solitudes ; 

Where the full-toned psalm 
Of Nature at her matin broke the calm 

Of cloudy pillowed Night, 
With calmness made more voluble by light : 

And where the Minstrel Noon, 
Made every young stem spring, as to a tune ; 

Ay, where our joys were led 
To suit the fluted measures of the orb o'erliead. 

I am forlorn 
Here 'mid the waking jargon of the day ; 
Noon brings no light, no song of birds at play ; 
My plume is in the dust : I pine and pray 
For the old woods, the grand old woods away 

Where I was born. 



Here I am dying : I want room — 
Koom for the air of heaven, for the bloom 



THE PLAINT OF THE WILD-FLOWER. 81 

Of never-tiring nature ; room 
For the verdure-freighted clouds, and thunder-boom 

That sounds relief to drouthy earth ; 
Room for the sunlight and th' exhaustless mirth 

Of laughing July's breeze, 
Untangling the meshes of the branching trees ; 

Room for cool night and ruddy day, 
For peace, for health — aught naturally gay ; 

Room to take vital breath 
x\nd look on any thing not painted death I 

I am forlorn — 
I, who from my earliest golden age, 
Sat by the regal Oak's foot, like a page, 
And, mantled in moss, at the close of day 
Slept by my prince, in the woods far away 

Where I was born. 



III. 

Here is no room — no room 
For e'en a flower's life ; nothing but a tomb. 

forest gods ! look down, 

And shield your other offspring from the town. 

Ah ! would that I could die 
Where o'er my wreck the forest flowers might sigh, 

And clustering shrubs a-near 
Weave dirges low, like leaves above my bier ; 

Where kindly chestnut-leaves 
Would shade the woe of every plant that grieves, 

And e'en the great Oak's head 
Let fall the tears of dew when his poor page is dead 

1 am forlorn : 

Night brings no darkness, and the day no light ; 



82 



FAITH AND FANCY. 



Noon brings but noise, to vary mj affright ; 
I'm dying 'neath the city's loathsome blight, 
Far, my mother Nature I from thy sight. 
Far from thy earth, thy heaven, and the woodland 
bright 
Where I was born. 



GAME LAWS. 80 



GAME LAWS/ 

I. 

A-THROUGH the crunching underwood the wild boar madly 

came, 
With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, stiff mane and eyes 

of flame. 

II. 
Through golden crops, through tangled copse, he fiercely 

plunging tore, 
All seemed but withered fibres to the rage-expanding 

boar. 

III. 
Through leafy screen and rough ravine, through lane and 

plain the brute 
Makes head, and in the cotter's field at last eludes 

pursuit. 

IV. 

" Ho ! Hans, be quick ; take in the child — bring out my 

trusty gun.'' 
Hans fled and came, the cotter fired — the wild boar's 

race was run. 

V. 

But woe ! alas, what came to pass, the forest-ranger saw 
The deed, and shot the cotter down — to make him " keep 
the law." 



84 FAITH AND FANCY. 

VI. 

HeiT Graff and staff, feast, laugh, and quaff that night 

with beakers red : 
The cotter's home is desolate — its head, its heart lies 

dead. 

VII. 

'Tis royal sport for king and court to hunt the grizzly 

boar, 
But woe unto the poor man who dares hunt him from 

his door. 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 85 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 



Scene— ^ Public Park in the City. 
Persons— TVoo Students. 



PICTOR. 

Look at the pale Moon pacing up the skies, 
Like a frayed maiden who had seen her sire, 
The martial Sun, the monarch of the day, 
Hunted before the red and spearlike clouds. 
Whose only glory is the blood he shed : 
See her, all pale and beautifully wan, 
O'erlooking where her overpowered sire. 
Ennobling the foes he crimsoned with his gore, 
Sank ; but, in sinking, died the victor's death, 
And dragged them with him from all eartlily gaze. 

LEON. 

She looks divine ! 

PICTOR. 

She is divine ! but see how white she grows, 

As though her regnant spirit was congeaPd 
With thinking on her sire's red sacrifice — 
Or though the horror of the mighty death 
Frightened away her outraged blood, and sent 
Her woman's milken feeling through her frame ; 
8 



86 FAITH AND FANCY. 

As on she hurries panting from the East— 
And up th' uncertain bhie with steady pace, 
Made regular in weakness, she persists— 
To preach her vengeance to tlie starry hosts, 
And trv to win them to her filial cause. 



LEON. 

Oh ! would we could her frenzied pleading hear— 
For see, yon stars seem gaining greater light 
From the infusion of her earnest speech ; 
She stirs their souls ; they glimmer with her thought, 
And nod, as to each other, their applause ! 
Oh ! how her orphaned virginhood must rise 
Into the woman's proud, full-statured force, 
Making her importunities, commands I — 
How she must picture the old hero's death, 
And make the roused heavens think he lives again, 
Pleading his own cause with accustomed fire ! 
She grows with her desire — expands in agony, 
And reaches with her light the furthest star. 

PIGTOR. 

But they are motionless — they seem so rapt 
With her enthusiasm, they bestir them not ; 
Her eloquence has fixed them where they stand. 

LEON. 

Ay doth she kill the cause by the effect 
She makes. Her bright, divine intelligence 
Run loose upon the sky — the stars are vague 
To aught but listening : / blame them not, 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 87 

For who could stir while yet her voice enchants, 
And flings its spells of eloquence around. 

PICTOR, 

Would I were Venus, and I'd win them all, 
As she did Paris, to my suit ; I'd make 
Their test of vassalage and price of court 
An unconditioned service to the Moon. 
I would, by all the beauty of her crest ! 
I would, or if they lacked the val'rous soul, 
Or paced in stolid ease whOe yet she prayed 
I'd change them, as the Cyprian fair she did,^ 
To moody oxen, and confer them horns 
Less hard than their own hearts. — But look I 

LEON. 

Mars reddens : hke a man, his face suffused 

With all the gory passion of his heart 

That prompts his brain to bloodier deeds 

Than crimsoning his own cheeks : yet see the Moon 

Untired, with luminous distention praying 

Aid from the tranced orbs — wasting her soul 

Upon the statued crowd, who give no sign 

They hearken to her speech, save that their fronts 

Beam in the light her radiant sorrow sheds. 

Would I were Mars ! Pictor ! would I were, 

And by the heavens I'd hold in my own right, 

I'd leap from out my hero couch of clouds. 

And marshalling the Scythian hordes in air, 

I'd drive these laggard constellations hence. 

And pale them in the visage of the Sun 

Avenged ! (Muses for a feiv momenta.) 



88 FAITH AND FANCY. 

A hero's name can conquer worlds ; 

The action dies not, though the body rots : 

And I would shout " The Sun" through every space 

Till all the echoes wrangled into one — 

Like foes towards a well-fought battle's close. 

Then like a Joshua I'd command it — stand — 

Making that day eternity in Heaven ! 

So that these stars might have devouring rest 

As stagnant waters grow beneath the Sun 

To eat themselves up with the things they bieed. 

Ah ! yonder stars — these ancient godships feel 

Their former deeds ill-qualify the seats 

They now usurp throughout the modern Heaven, 

And fear to move, lest moving they're unthroned ; 

As though the sitting on a throne made kings 

Or gods, or transfused souls in slimy men. 

A king is he whose regnant soul acts king ! 

Men can be gods 'mong men who ajct the god, 

And every dastard is himself the mark 

Showing how far below his knavish heart 

The tide of virtue flings the weeds of vice. 

Look at the Moon, so passionately pure — 

See how she knocks uupitied at their hearts, 

Like outcast Virtue at a city's gates 

Where "merchant princes" star commercial skies. 

And now — expanding in her strength of woe, 

She rises o'er the senseless myriads there 

To shield her virgin pride from heartless gaze. 

See — with eyes turned for comfort to her heart, 

As plant that closes to the vulgar touch. 

And pale determination on her brow. 

And sobs unuttered, making her bare breast 

In expectation rigid, as they wait 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 89 

Upon her mouth, as prisoner upon 

The gates, to heave his presence to the air — 

She paces queenhke to yon murky cloud, 

And seeks a refusje in the weighty ffloom : 

As virgin martyrs her god-ripened years 

In solemn, solitary, cloister dim, 

Seeking within the empire of her faith 

Amends for that cold, senseless world she fled — 

And lo ! the people who had passed her by. 

Or gazed at her for beauty's sake alone, 

Proclaim in gossip all the worth gone with her. 

So, all the stars seem whispering of the Moon ; 

They actually brighten, as inspired, 

Now she is gone, in pity for her fate. 

Poor Moon — thou art the type of intellect, 

And all mankind but imitate the stars. 

PICTOR. 

'Tis true — too true : but, Leon, let us on. 
Like Rembrandt's shadows is the atmosphere, 
Darkly and deeply clear, to night. 

LEON. 

Ay, good ! 
And through it brood yon clouds, as ponderous as 
The prophet brow of Angelo's Isaiah. 

PICTOR. 

Leon, let us on — the air refreshes like a bath : 
It turns quaint fancies in my dreaming brain. 
Like a Kaleidoscope : all the shiftless thoughts. 
On which the humid noon lay like muffed glass, 

8* 



90 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Now deftly turn, and tumble into pictures. 
This night air's like iced wine, it cools the brain 
And warms the fancy. Bah, these August days, 
When the red noon like a huge blanket folds 
The summer, hushing up the city's energy 
Into a sluggish, dreamless heat, arc horrible — 
I can only breathe o'nights. 

LEON. 

The day's hot jargon, with its clamors rude, 
Clangs on my ear as doth the discord mean 
When miser huckster rings a poor man's coin. 
It speaks of traffic, doubts, and selfish ends ; 
The whole sensation of the day is Cash. 
You can't enjoy it save you quit the town ; 
And seek sweet nature on the broad highways ; 
In crooked lanes where vine-clad banks are fanned, 
By lithe witch-hazel and young maple boughs ; 
In yellow woods with nuts incrusted o'er ; 
Or, by the margins of the elfin streams, 
That dance in white-capped groups a-through the 

rocks, 
And then join hands to rush o'er level sands. 
You leave the city to enjoy the day : 
But in this park, within the city's heart. 
With fabrics dim, like battlements around, 
We can enjoy the calm and placid night. 
Night speaks a language known to every tongue ; 
When I unfold my heart to her, I feel 
As though I spoke to every troubled soul. 
Her starry syllables each land translates 
Into the universal blessing — rest. 
In every clime the lover trusts in her ; 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 91 

From her the sorrow-laden find response : 

She is munificence itself to grief. 

On her pale breast the wretched outlaw rests ; 

The beggar views the starlight as a king, 

Yea, like a monarch he in moonlight walks, 

When day, like monarch, walks upon his rags. 

And to the student's vague and longing breast 

Is not the vast impenetrable night 

A fit companion ? And to those 

Thrice happy hearts, who at the Throne of thrones, 

Seek upon bended knee sweet recompense, 

And all-supplying dues for the defaults 

Of life, what time so prayerful as night 

To make their peace with Heaven ere they sink 

Into that temporary death called sleep. 

PICTOR. 

Truly thou art enraptured with the night, 
And break thy fantasies upon her grace. 
As lovers do upon their first love's love. 
Think her thy mistress, and but woo her thus, 
She'll doubtless graft upon thy ardent brain 
The various benefits you crown her with. 

LEON. 

The Moon-souled midnight is the Poet's love. 

Pale with reflection of the sunny world 

Of books and thought : her placid forehead bound 

With strands of lustrous stars, but brilliant less 

Than all the teeming radiances within. 

Her wavy locks in pale effulgence hang 

Around them with prophetic dreaminess, 



92 FAITH AND FANCY. 

As doth the Revelations of Saint Johu^ 
Around the light on his enthusiast brain. 
Her eyes are blue, as blue as Huron's lake ; 
And like it clear, in which the gazer sees, 
Through magic vistas of refracted light, 
Her pure soul bathing in their azure depths 
And flinging gems out as a nymph from cave. 
As Huron's lake her eyes ; their lashes dark 
Like the tall fir-trees, black against the sky. 
Which are reflected in the moon-lit lake, 
And let the light flood through their lashy web 
As water teems out from a fisher's net, 
And leaves the silver-fish within it caught, 
Yet leaping brilliance in the silken jail. 

PICTOR. 

Bravo I Perchance in presence of the fau" 
You have described, you would outline the bard. 
Who hath so great a passion for her I 

LEON. 

You can no more describe the Poet, than 
You can make rules to judge of poetry. 

PICTOR. 

Yet critics have at both I why not ? 

LEON. 

Because 
True poetry, is truthful thought made plain ; 
Deep love of Nature, Man, and God ! that brings 
To each heart's empire, humbly, howsoe'er, 



DREAMING BY M00NLK5HT. 93 

The greatest good, and lifts its feelings up 
To man and God with pure dependent faith I 
Can we make rules to measure each heart's need ? 
Only the Poet in his prophet vein 
Comes near that power. 

PICTOR. 

Yet we have rules — 

LEON. 

True, which but prove they're useless to true song. 
Whence come these rules by captious critics made ? 
From great bard's works to frighten lesser ones. 
All poets are not Shaksperes, yet they're judged 
By rules which Shakspere's excellence suggests. 
One might as well o'errule the tender stars 
Because they're not like the creating sun. 
You would not crush th' aspiring creeping rose, 
Because it cannot be a centuried oak I 

PICTOR. 

No, truly ; 'twere too bad our sweethearts wore 
Nor rose nor violet on their breast or hair 
Because forsooth the oak's thy king of plants. 

LEON. 

No. Let the blessed ones be decked with flowers I 
Those blooming gems were sent for woman's care. 
They are the fragrant wealth of innocence — 
The silent courtiers that in gardens bow 
In thankful blossoms to the gentle queens 



94 FAITH AND FANCY, 

By whose sweet leave and favor they are there. 
Oh, bless the girls ! especially bless those 
Who honor Nature in the love of flowers. 
So should we have a blessing for the bard 
Who, though he grasps not the quick changing hues 
Of life's great scenes, in all their epic shifts, 
Cultures the flowers and harmonies of life : 
His heart is right. 

PIGTOR. 

We cannot give too much 
Of honest recompense to those who live 
Alone to tend the beautiful. 



LEON. 

Recompense ? 
How can you recompense the Poet's heart. 
Which hath more wealth than lurid placers yield ? 
The Poet's heart encompasses the world, . 
And throbs great futures into fancied life. 
He knows all past, and as a cloud o'er moon 
Passes the present, stealing all its light. 
And floats up farther heavens unknown to us 
Where other moons make night to other worlds, 
And other suns, like fiery burnished bits, 
Rein in their charging satellites as steeds. 
He thinks vast futures, which, if born aright, 
Shall hold his image as the son his sire's. 
He flies through futures as a seed through stonn, 
That falls to rise a cedar. Ay, he hews 
Out from that mine of mist, to-morrow. 
Deep echoing temples for his soul's repose, 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 95 

And dwells in them to-day : — as Shakspere loosed 

The gusty currents of his Boreal soul 

Through the tone-fashioning valleys of his brain, 

Which sprang such sounds two centuries ago 

As have not ended yet ; so that no ear 

Can know the echo from the voice itself. 

Where shall its gathering echoes end ? Oh where ! 

If 'twill not hve this third-rate world out, 

This minor fragment of the Godhead's work, 

And float it full of song and sense along 

The turbulent and greedy sea of Time, 

Dash it to chaos as a sacrifice. 

And harmonize the crash of crumbUng worlds I 

[A pause. 
The Poet's recompense is in being a Poet ! 
The most Earth can do is not let him starve. 

PICTOR. 

I pray you, Leon, let's not talk o' that. 
The Beautiful will drive us into earth. 
Like moles, if she but hear us mutter " bread." 
Come, let us feed upon the stars. 

LEON. 

Heavenly night ! 
Night such as this is truly Poet's food. 

PICTOR. 

And Painter's also my exclusive friend. 

LEON. 

And are not Painters Poets with the brush ? 
It is their Prosiiero-wand — it is the rod 



96 FAITH AND FANCY. 

By which, as Franklhi drew the heavenly fire, 

They draw all nature's brilliance to their will I 

The canvas is his world, o'er which supreme, 

The artist looks creation like a god. 

Seeing vast nature's there while yet 'tis blank. 

He smiles, 'tis peopled ; mountains lap the skies, 

Thick plaided woods hang robe-like round their loins ; 

Rivers leap forth with glad primeval chants ; 

Streamlets run babbling, laughing in his face, 

Like little children who may smile at God ; — 

Valleys yawn open at his peaceful nod ; 

Oceans are raging when he thinks in thunder ; 

Ships riven sink beneath his light'ning eye ; 

Flowers chant perfume to his summer thought ; 

And he surrounds all, as the air his earth I 

Is not this poetry ? The very thought 

Matins my own aspiring dawn for verse. 

And drags up all my wild desires and love, 

Like ghosts from out the sultry tomb of noon. 

Where they were sepultured, not dead, but tranced 

Thine is a marvellous art, my friend, 

And thou hast genius, too — genius, like a sun, 

To richen your ambition, send a pulse. 

And life, and bright transfusion into all 

It smiles upon : but you must labor, too. 

Like that great orb, and heat the canvas into action 

So that when you, with honor doubled, sink, 

Your locks grown golden, as in infant age. 

With all the sun-tinct trophies of your art, 

Your every picture, like a starry world. 

Shall hold a fixed, mysterious wealth to earth. 

And, all combined, be galaxy of stars — 

An orbed and systemed heaven in which, unseen 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 9T 

Saving through them, as their creator, you 
Shall look and live eternal ! 

PICTOR. 

Fling not, Leon, the lasso of thy tongue 

So wildly around my brain : you make me mad, 

And only weaken me with passion, dumb. 

The golden net you weave around my heart 

Is blood-stained, as it swells to its capacity 

And bursts. I plunge in your great fantasy. 

Like a man at sea, mocked at each plunge, 

Yet plunging still to overleap the waves, 

Those liquid gods, that, white-lipped, sneer me down. 

As well might valley-huddled stream leap up 

And kiss the hill-tops, which alone kiss heaven, 

As I attempt the laurel that you shake : 

You place the destiny too infinite, 

The crown too high. 

[The Students walk on in silence. After a 
long pause, and suddenly, Pictor resumes, 
musingly ;] 
Yet I have been no orphan to such thoughts. 
Bat they were in less vivid frenzies draped. 
[Enthusiastically.] Ay, I have oft before my 

easel stood 
Watching my soul take sliapes o' the canvas — 
Flinging my color-laden palette there. 
As Jove cast Saturn's blood into the sea, 
And saw it rise a goddess ! I have stood 
Facing this new heaven like a continent, 
And felt my ambitious thoughts, like rivers, 
Glut the deep secret ravines of my heart, 
Cataract over obstacles, and spread 
9 



98 FAITH AXD FANCY. 

On, growing stronger for an ocean bound ; 

That ocean, like all seas, immortal I [^A pause 

Are we not equal to our dreams ? 

LEON. 

We are. 
The dreams of poets are their lives' programmes. 
Even their acts are dreams to lesser men, 
And they themselves alone can act their dreams. 
Dreams to such men are beacons where to go ; 
They rest the body, but ne'er calm the brain ; 
And while flesh sleeps the soul allots its work. 
When eyelids kiss eyelids, like a fondling pair, 
And say " Good-night" before they lock in sleep, 
Then to the outward world the poet rests ; 
The while his body, like a listless cloud 
Scarce motioning in summer noon, is free, 
And warmed to quiet by his soul's loud songs, 
As is the cloud by sunlight. 
A brilliant future is before you friend : 
As lantern looks right on the shadows down ; 
Fling out your soul, and make your own path clear. 

PICTOR. 

If I could undream all my dreams in acts, 
Baptize in colors all my waking thoughts. 
Drag them like culprits to the face of day, 
And sentence them to service, I might be. 
As oft I vainly hoped, a people's love. 
The worshipped of a race ! the painter, who 
Shed lustrous tribute greater far thaw gold 
Upon the State I dwelt in, and was reared, 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 99 

As on a monument of human hearts, 

Above the taxes of oflQcial seal, 

As Titian was in Yenice !^ A wise 

And most uncommon prince was Charles the Fifth, 

Who boasted triple immortality. 

LEON. 

Ha ! monarchs not seldom lie ! 

PICTOR. 

But he spoke truth, 
For Titiano painted him three times. 

LEON. 

By all the gods, such glory makes one shake, 
As though the gray, rapt antiquaries were 
Fing'ring one's skeleton, and muttering 
Low in reverence — " the<?e are Pictor's bones, 
The wondrous Artist he, and these Leon's 
The Poet." If we are sepultured a-close 
I'll nudge thee then — you laugh, but I'm for fame ; 
For I shall link my verses with your works. 
Ay, like name upon your tomb, to live there, 
And become immortal ; coaxing the ages' 
Praise, for that like them, I knew you famous. 
As Giovanni Strozzi for all time 
Stands on an epigram, he wrote on him 
The Arts' Arch-angel Michael, Angelo I 

PICTOR. 

Your sarcasm is winning in its fancy 
And only proves how prone you poets are 



100 FAITH AND FANCY. 

To make mankiud your debtors. Yet Leon 
In rich Johannisberg I'd drink to you 
And your imagination, if I could. 

LEON. 

Bah I rich wine makes not honest wishes riche*", 
It only floats the loose straws of the wits 
Into a bundle on the praise-choked ear. 

PICTOR. 

Well, here's may you as great a Poet be, 
As you would fain so make an Artist me 1 

LEON, 

So you fling back my measure of your worth 

On me as the daguerreotypist does — 

A likeness only without natural hues. 

Ah I Flattery — thou'rt used to coloring ; 

I need it not as most your sitters do, 

For I have wed my heart unto my brain. 

My heart, like woman, full of pure desires 

Warms the wild current of her husband's will, 

And by uniting with his purpose, hers, 

Keeps all his forces disciplined by love : 

So they are one, reliant, strong, and pure. 

As two young streams that fled their parent hills, 

Conscious of beauty, reckless in their strength, 

Ambitioning to travel through an earth. 

Are madly bounding to'ards a chasm unseen. 

Haply they meet, and gallant by the way. 

Soon they expand, like lovers' thought, and kiss 

In one foam-passionate, convincing love ; 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 101 

« 

And clinging closer in the shadowy gorge, — 
As wife and husband in misfortune's gloom, — 
In one great span, — as rainbow in the skies 
Aug'ring of good, or sunbeams o'er the cloud 
Leap to the earth, — they near the brink, and then, 
In one wild throb — ^love's sacrificial spasm, 
They clear the rock, fling off their doubt in mist, 
Heave in joy's agony at the danger past. 
And, more than ever in each other twined. 
Pace broadly onward through a wondering world. 

PICTOR. 

'Tis a bold metaphor, and an apt. 
According well with your fine, frenzied, 
Rapturous decision* 

LEON. 

As those wed streams, 
So of my heart and brain. Wild, riotous, 
Unknown to each, as stars of various meu 
After rough speculation they have met. 
Thank Heaven, not too late, and shudder o'er 
The whispered stories of their reckless past. 
My head and heart, like Moses' arms, are up 
Tor victory ! Goliath-browed Despair, 
That giant evil falls, — my will the David ! 
You need not stare — I am not crazed, but love, 
Passionately love the beautiful I 
The wise, the great, the pure, soul-worthy great ; 
The trees, the rocks, the rivers, and the wind ; 
Earth, all its prized and unknown places ; ay, 
For here I learn, what no man knew before, 
The heavens and all its vast locaHties 

9* 



102 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Of stars, I love with trembling vibrant soul, 
In one heart-easing word — love God. 

[A silence of some time : Leon resumes 
with enthusiastic calmness. 
Pictor, what I aspire to, I will be, 
O^ swallow up myself, as the ocean 
Swallows the rain it once sent to the skies. 

PICTOR. 

With such a courage you deserve to win ; 
'Tis honor, friend, with courage such to fail ; 
I have the heart, but not the head to win, 
While you seem born to fill up some great space : 
Your brain is like a ball of silken thread, 
Which may be woven into vast extent 
As great in texture as in lustre rare. 

LEON. 

The Campanero in the southern woods. 
With its white-bosomed, resonant appeal, 
Makes all the silence-shrouded forest-trees 
Start from thi'ir rest, for many miles around, 
As convent-bell its votaries to prayer. 
So when I sing, all distance shall be near. 
In the wide universal echo. 
I'll break upon men's reveries my song. 
As Campanero on the dreaming leaves ; 
Or, like the Tinamou, that lonely bird,^° 
I'll utter one shrill cry — and men shall drop 
The axe, or stay their rumbling teams — 
Maids shall lean closer to the swarthy arms 
And bend their heads to hear whence comes that 
sound 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 103 

Half melancholy, half defiant shriek, 

Which they shall never hear again. 

I shall sing loud at intervals, or but once, 

And then no more. I quail not to go on ; 

My only fear is to recede in thought. 

Behind me, like a ship, there is a billowy surge, 

Before, expansive wastes to be ploughed up ; 

Prophetic Heaven, as one vast choir, sings *' go on," 

And earthly nature in its fruits and flowers 

Like chanting acolytes respond. 

Why, when I lift my forehead to the Sun 

Does he not make my onward pathway clear. 

And that I've trod gloom with my own shadow. 

[Clock strikes. 

PICTOR. 

One — two — three — four — ah I bless me, it is dawn I 

How fast the hours speed in talking. — 

Four o'clock — let us for home : but where's the 

Moon? 
Oh ! see how haggard and out-tired she looks, 
As lonely now she wanders broken-souled. 
Scarcely the shadow of her beauteous self. 
And all the stars are well-nigh fled away. 
To dream of her unhappiness and fate ; 
Save here and there, some tender-hearted one, 
Lingers who is not resolute to go 
His way, or either follow her with cheer. 
Mayhap the dead fire of her eloquence 
Still spurts in embers on his soul's chilled hearth — 
Who pales in sorrow for his acts to her, 
And riven in consternation for her fate. 
Sinks purposeless in silence where he stands. 



104 FAITH AND FANCY. 

LEON. 

So meu who're cowards and of bloodless hearts, 

Or cold and stagnant ones, but brains enough 

In silent flights, to dare a future think, 

Yet lack the courage to construct upon 

The certain present coming ages claim. 

The fools know not that those who live when dead, 

Are never dead when living. 

Here, Pictor, 
Here is a picture for your brush, — see where, 
Just over the horizon, undulate 
Those pale, flushed clouds, as though the yestreen's 

Sun, 
That sank, like dying hero, in his gore — 
Was stirring in the shroud that swathed him round, 
And sent his luminous action through the folds, 
As though he felt he was not dead, but slept. 
And struggled through his cerements to prove 
The conscious glory to the weeping earth. 
See too, like her whose son the Saviour raised, 
The mute, dun Heaven, like a widow stands — - 
An awed-hope slightly ruddying her weeds. 
Her ashen pallor daring not to flee. 
Until she sees — oh mystery ! — her son 
Unshrouded, living, breathing, panting, move 
Up from the couch, she dreamt alone, of death. 

PICTOR. 

Now may the heartless planets tremble ever, 
And wailing Moon rejoice. 

LEON. 

But no — she flies 
Frightened unto death's shadowy texture. 



DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 105 

Stricken in the presence of the rising Sun. 
Her woman's terror giving fright full speed, 
She vanishes before what seems to her 
The gory spirit of her murdered sire. 
And on through vast eternities she runs, 
Distracted, plaining, superstitious, frayed ; 
Loving the night, as sorrow loves the gloom, 
For then her heart may gush a daughter's love 
In orphaned abnegation of all bliss ; 
Save of her stately purity thus loving. 
Weak with her wail, distraught with fancies wild, 
Haunted with loving memories, she beholds 
Her glorious sire's lurid ghost appear 
With every dawn, and barely able, flies ; 
While he hot-hearted, not less loving, lights 
The heavens all day to tell her, he is there. 

So the eternal chase goes ever on ; 
The Sun, hke reason, with his broadcast light 
Rising forever to explain the doubts. 
The fear-suggested notbings ui ihe dark. 
The mist-made mountains, sombre shadowed groups 
And filmy pageants of the moon-struck hours. 
While she, the Moon, pale superstition's queen, 
The monarch of the realms of fay 
And elf and goblin, witch and boneless ghost ; 
Reflections of her wail, as she of Sun, 
For fanatics e'er throug gaunt Reason's wake 
Until he, goaded with their insane shouts. 
Turns on the mob with bright, determined eyes ; 
And disconnects them in the face of day. 
And wakeful men, from Truth's unhowled calm 
Faith :— 



106 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Ay she, the Moon, pale superstition's queen, 
The prophetess of most devoted slaves. 
Loud Ignorance and tongueless Fear, dreads Light, 
For which grave Error ever says she seeks. 
Most doubting men fear most to be convinced, 
Yet preach most piously they thirst for fact. 
The moon-brained on their own diseases feed : 
And some who, sunless in a dungeon's vault, 
Have lived like moles, — die when they see the light. 
And then for some, black error hath such bliss. 
From long experience, that a virtuous life 
Brings them a solitude — a quiet hell, 
A spirit-maddening calm, like calm at sea 
To storm-tost craft, whose hold but echoes hath. 
So of the frayed Moon, and the rising Sun. 
Thus the eternal chase goes ever on. 
Chill Superstition wailing through the gloom, 
Till Nature, flattered that she pains for truth, 
Sends up refulgent Reason on her path ; 
But Superstition, knowing not the day. 
Affrighted, flies off at the name of Light. 



EFFIE GRAY. lOT 



EFFIE GRAY. 

We may watch, aud we may wait — 

Hope, till hoping bringeth pain, 
But she ne'er will pass the gate — 

Effie cannot come again. 

She was like some flower of Spring, 

Seeking Summer but to die. 
When the very graves can bring 
Beauty to the heart and eye ; 
When each mound, like throbbing breast, 

Seems to heave with less of pain 
Thau of conscious pleasure, pressed 
By June's loving arms and brain : 
Arms that press with soothing sway. 
Brain enwreathed with flowers, 
These are meet for the night that ne'er finds day 
Meet for the rest of Effie Gray, 

Though fraught with gloom for ours. 

We may dream she's coming soon, 

But we dupe our hopes in vain : 
She is off — the Bride of June I 

Effie will not come ao-ain. 



108 FAITH AND FANCY. 

She is gone with the lordly June 

Of the fragrant blood and brow, 
And the flowers croon a bridal tune, 

Though to us 'tis a death-chant now. 
Oh ! her face was bright as morn, 

And her eyes were dark as night, 
And her lips had a sunny scorn. 

Defending the weak or the right ; 
And her locks, like the loosened tresses 

On some ripe Bacchante's head. 
Wove sibylline caresses 

Round the eyes that thither sped ! 

Fit Queen, I ween, for June the proud 
With his leaf- woven caves and bowers — 
Though her laugh be hushed, and her robe a shroud, 
'l^ake pride in thy bride, O June, ine proud, 
She is fairest among thy flowers. 

Hope we may, if hope we must, 

To allay our brooding pain ; 
But the hinge be rust, and the gate be dust, 

Ere fair Effie comes again. 

She passed through this tearful earth. 

Like a sun-ray through the rain, 
Making diamonds in the dearth, 

With her woman's heart and brain. 
For her heart was like the shower 

In July with bliss replete ; 
And her brain, the mystic power 

Of the Indian Summer's heat. 
Oh ! of rich and sparkling vintage 

Was her nature bubbling up, 



THE PARITNG OF THE SUX. 109 

Till Death, the reckless drunkard, 

Drank the draught, and crushed the cup. 
No human hand may deck the grave 
Of Effie Gray with flowers ; 
For the sun through the noon, and at night the moon 
Whispers life into many a rare festoon, 

As never might spring from hand like ours. 



THE PARTING OF THE SUN. 

I. 

It was evening by the Hudson, and the Sun in conscience 

blest 
With all the joy he gave that day, went nobly down to rest ; 
Like some great benefactor, gliding off with happy mien, 
O'erjoyed with his power to bless, yet blushing because 

seen. 

II. 

Yet he lingered for a moment, as to crown his silent mirth, 
By witnessing in one last glance, the comfort he gave 

Earth, 
And seemed to say, " God bless you," while all nature 

unto him 
Sent back the prayer a thousand-fold from stream and 

leafy lunb. 

III. 

The humble shrub that hugged the Earth doth homage 
humbly bring — 



110 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Like all good loving offspring who around their mother 

cling, 
And repaying back her kindness, flower a-near the aged 

sod — 
And thrill with low-born eloquence of thanks to Nature's 

God. 

IV. 

Like other earthly children who have mental strength 

and growth. 
The Poet Oak, the Elm Sage, and thoughtful Willow, 

loth 
To cramp the rich exuberances that throb their pulses, 

dare 
Possess the mist like minstrels and make music with the 

air. 

V. 

And the Kaatskills, bleak as sorrow, with their gray heads 

to the sky, 
Seemed mute in contemplation, loth to bid the Sun good- 

by: 
With their broad backs turned westward, as though grief 

would not allow 
Them face their friend, and feel his smile grow weak 

upon their brow. 

VI. 

They fain would live in memories of the noon, like sage 

who cheers 
In gossiping of long lost joys that sunned his manhood's 

years — 



THE PARTING OF THE SUN. Ill 

But the anxious mist, like gathering tears, creep deftly 

o'er their breast, 
Aud circling thence, like blood, rush up the sorrow to 

their crest. 

VII. 

And the Hudson, like a courier, doth with serious fury 

run, 
To bear old hoary Ocean the last message of the Sun ; 
Where the Congress of the river-gods in coral halls hold 

feast, 
And bid the waves go welcome in his dawning in the 

East. 

VIII. 

And the tall trees weep in shadows, for happily know 
they 

The Sun can't see the gloom he casts around when forced 
away, 

And kindly show their brightest sides to soothe the part- 
ing pain, 

While Day and Night's weird offspring. Eve, speeds up the 
eastern plain. 

IX. 

There's a silence, like that moment when the drear fact 

feeds the blast. 
That the golden sands of some great god of earth have 

run their last. 
And noiseless round his couch the world, the nurse, Night, 

one by one, 
Drapes the dun curtains of the clouds, and mutters pale — 

" He's gone." 



112 FAITH AND FANCY. 



HE WRITES FOR BREAD. 



Time — 'tis midnight : Scene — a Garret : 

Dramatis Personoe — two : 
One, with wintry locks of silver — 

One, with locks of dark-brown hue. 
And the old man sits him calmly, 

Speaking nothing, while his face, 
TVith its quiet depth of meekness, 

Sheds a radiance on the place. 
But, God ! could we unfold his soul, 

And read the epic there, 
We would not wonder at his thought, 

Nor whiteness of his hair. 
Anon, he strangles to a sigh, 

Some heart-ache upward led ; 
Lest by a word 
He'd break the chord 

Of song that's wildly flitting 

Through the brain of him that's sitting, 
Gushing out his very heart's blood 

On the page before him spread — 
For through the night the young man kneads 

His brain for their daily bread. 



HE WRITES FOR BREAD. 113 



II. 



See, his pen toils slower, slower ; 

Now he talks his dreams aloud ; 
And — he hastes to wrap his fancy 

In the pale expectant shroud : 
For every sheet his brain-thoughts fill, 

Each line his keen wants crave. 
But wrap and bind by piecemeal down 

The youth to an early grave. 
Those little characters he inks, 

Are all grim Death's abetters ; 
He does not nobly die at once, 

But sinks to his grave by letters. 
And now his jaded thought would lag 
To soothe his aching head ; 
But he cannot wait, 
For the empty plate 
Reflects back his stare 
For the loaf not there : 
But the old man is there — God ! must he starve 

While legions of other men's fathers are fed ? 
The pang's inspiration ! The madhouse and love 
Are gambling for hun who is writing for bread. 



III. 

He writes to make the readers laugh, 
When his heart's full with tears, 

And all the Town seem happy when 
His prose or verse appears. 

They little know the loving heart 
That beats in garret dim. 



114 FAITH AND FANCY. 

Or while they daily go to 'Change, 
What change would be to him ! 
The Printer's paid — the Paper's paid — 

The Pressman's pressing, too ; 
And while the Author's left to starve, 

The " Devil," gets his due ; 
The Publisher in carriage rolls, 
And sleeps on feather bed. 
While he that gives 
Them all life, lives 
In a prison of thought and sorrow. 
Never daring to think on the morrow ; 
For the Bookseller's note, which put off the pay, 

Will not lighten a creditor's tread. 
Nor save from the landlord the few darling books 
Of the Bondman who writes for his bread. 



NOTES. 



' Reminiscence of Fort Corcoran. — Henry Watterson, 
Esq., whose striking articles on " Thomas de Qiiincey," and 
" American Song, as illustrated by George P. Morris," in the 
National Democratic Quarterly, have attracted such deserved 
notice, has been writing some graphic sketches of camp and 
camp-life about Washington, for the Philadelphia Press, over 
the nom de plume of " Asa Trenchard." In one of his lengthiest 
sketches he gives a most earnest and picturesque description of 
" the first flag-raising over Federal battlements in the Old Do- 
minion" in the war, and which, as an exciting and interesting 
historical episode in the career of the gallant Sixty-ninth, can- 
not be omitted from the chronicle which will record the strength 
and patriotism which constructed Fort Corcoran. Arriving just 
in time for " the grand, imposing spectacle," he says : 

" As I stood and surveyed the hastily summoned regiment — 
thirteen hundred of them — some in red flannel shirts, with 
sleeves rolled up, exposing the grand sinews of brawny arms ; 
some in blue jackets, soiled with the toil of the trenches; some 
in white flowing havelocks ; some in cocked hats, and some 
bareheaded, it was impossible to repress an audible expression 
of admiration at the splendid material represented for the work 
or the glory of war. There the dark brows, lowering from 
massive foreheads over flashing eyes ; there, pale but bleachless 
cheeks to fear, knit closely to impregnable lips, the craters of 
flaming and invincible breath, the pride and prowess of repre- 
sentative Ireland, the issue of that spreading Celtic seed which 
has sown the world with power, stood before me. 

" The troops were drawn up in a semicircle, gradually rising 
within the amphitheatre formed by the mounds of earth-erected 
batteries, the front flies sitting, the next grade stooping, and 
the rear ranks standing upon the declivity, as it sloped upward 
toward the ' outer walls,' the whole presenting the spectacle 
of a circus audience, seen from the centre-post in the ring ; this 
centre-post being a noble shaft from which the banner noiv 
waves. 



1 1 6 NOTES. 

" The group around this ' pillar of light' were Colonel Corcoran 
(now general), Colonel Hunter (now major-general), of the regu- 
lar 8,rmy, Captain Meagher (now brigadier-general), John Sav- 
age, volunteer aid to Corcoran, and, of course, * Asa Trenchard.' 

" Now for the ceremony. 

"First, Colonel Corcoran introduced Colonel Hunter, who 
had just been assigned the command of the brigade of the 
Aqueduct, consisting of the Fifth, Twenty-eighth, and Sixty- 
ninth New York regiments, making some patriotic allusion to 
the flag. Colonel Hunter was, of course, received with loud 
acclaim, when Meagher was called out by the throng. He 
stei)ped forward, and made a brief but high-toned and patriotic 
address, showing the devotion Irishmen should bear to that 
flag wliich brought succor to them in Ireland, and to which, 
upon landing in this country, they swore undivided allegiance. 
He was heartily applauded throughout. 

" John Savage, at the desire of Colonel Corcoran, simg the 
following song to the air of ' Dixie's Land.' It was written by 
himself, and is entitled ' The Starry Flag,' which is now iden- 
tified with the Sixty-ninth. 

" The enthusiasm which this peculiarly stirring song, with 
its splendid refrain chorused by thirteen hundred brave voices, 
aroused, while the Stars and Stripes floated proudly forth from 
the mast-head in the melting sunset on the sweet breeze from 
the river, cannot be described. It was electrical. There stood 
the author himself by the side of Meagher, both symbols of 
Irish patriotism ; there stood those dauntless men, their broth- 
ers in arms and exile ; and there, above all — the stripes vying 
with the red streaks of the west, and its stars with the silver 
globes that already began to break through the sky — waved 
the banner which had come to them when starving, which had 
protected them when flying, and for whose preservation and 
per] )et nation they now marched to the roll of the national re- 
veille ! Well might it awaken those grateful hearts ; and no 
wonder that when the last thunders of the final verse, roaring 
like distant artillery, were rising up like vigils around the flag, 
they broke from their places and surrounded their chief, their 
orator, their priest, and their poet in a general Irish ' hullabaloo,' 
as inspiring as a camp-meeting. I must say that it was very hard, 
between the comic, grotesque scene now presented to the eye, 
and the earnest, heartfelt associations imaged to the heart, it 
was dilficult to refrain from mingled convulsions of laughter 
and crying. 

" A word or two apropos of this song, which I cannot but be- 
lieve has a future in it. Its origin is not less dramatic than its 
poetry, and its brief story as interesting as the history of the 



NOTES. in 



'Marseillaise' or the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' It was first writ- 
ten and sung on the war transport ' Marion,' on her perilous 
route up the Potomac through the masked batteries of the 
enemy's country. . . . .... " — From 

Morris & Willis's Home Journal. 

" " Ich sterbe gern fiir Freiheit und fiir Licht, 
Getreu der Fahne dor ich zugeschworen." 

Oerman Song. 

' " A hundred thousand welcomes." 

* Shane O'Neill, the most powerful Ulster chief of his day, 
had so harassed the English, and scoffed at all their arts of 
diplomacy, their offers of nobility and reformatory patronage, 
that the " government seems to have determined, either by 
force or otherwise, the northern prince must be destroyed." 
After living for some years the proud, ferocious, and feared 
ruler of Ulster, he was at last murdered at a feast given to him 
by the Scotch Macdonnells, of Antrim, whose sept he had for- 
merly ravaged. The instigator of this foul treachery and 
slaughter was one Piers, an English officer and agent of the 
Lord Deputy. He appropriated O'NeiU's head, and received for 
it one thousand marks from his master. " This gliastly head 
was gibbeted high upon a pole, and long grinned upon the 
towers of Dublin Castle." For an account of Shane, vide Mitch- 
el's Life of Hugh O'Ntill. 

* Kippure, Castle-Kelly, Bal-mannoch, Cornaun (better known 
as the old hill of Rollinstown, and at present called Montpelier), 
See-Finane, &c., are the names of hills which form part of the 
range of Dublin mountains, and look down into Glan-nis-mole, 
or " the Vale of Thrushes." Kij^pure is at the remote end of the 
valley. The Dodder rises in this hill from three springs, which 
join a short way down, and thence united, spring into the vale. 
Kilmosantan is the ruin of a primitive Christian church, situate 
between the river and the well, and about two hundred yards 
from the latter. The " Golden Spears" are the two conical 
mountains of Wicklow, known as the " Sugar Loaves." 

The above was originally published in 1848 ; and afterwards 
collected into the "Lays of the Fatherland," by the author, 
in 1850. The kind mention of it by several American critics 
writing on Irish poetry since, has induced the author to free 
it as much as possible from the inaccuracies consequent upon a 
hasty publication originally, and without a glance even at the 
proof-sheets. It has been altered, and somewhat rewritten — it 
is to be hoped for the better. 



118 NOTES. 

® Written upon contemplating Stuart's portrait in the Boston 
Athenaeum. 

' Suggested by Hiihner's picture " The Death of the Poach- 
er." See "Gems from the Diisseldorf Gallery," edited by 
B. Frodsham, and published by the Appletons. 

^ " I'll change them as the Cyprian fair, she did 
To moody oxen," &c. 
Amongst the instances recorded by the mythologists of the 
severity of Venus against such as came under her dislike is, 
that she transformed the women of Amathus, in Cyprus, into 
oxen, for their cruelty. 

^ " Above the taxes of official seal. 
As Titian was in Venice," &c. 

On an occasion of general impost upon the inhabitants of 
Venice, t'le Senate, in estimation of the genius of Titian, de- 
clared him, and one other alone, exempt from the tax. The 
other was Sansovino, the statuary and architect. 

Apropos of the allusion in the text to Titian's portraits of 
Charles v., I may quote C. P. Carpani (Notes to Benvenuto Cellini h 
Memmrs) : " Charles V. particularly declared himself indebted 
to him three times for immortality, since he had as often drawn 
his portrait ;" and seeing that his courtiers envied the public 
favors bestowed on one whose only title was painter, he ob- 
served to them that " he himself could create dukes, counts, 
and nobles by hundreds, but that God alone could form a Tiziano." 
Great homage this of monarchy to mind, and not without a 
reason it would seem, from the attention drawn to these famous 
portraits. " It is pretended," says Quatremere de Quincy, allud- 
ing, in his ■' Life of Raffaello," to the statement in the Lettere 
Pittoriche, " that the illusion of the likeness was such that the 
picture, having been placed near a table, the son of the emperor 
approached it, in order, as he supposed, to talk with his father 
on business." 

'" " The Campanero in the southern woods," &c. 
" Or like the Tinamou, that lonely bird," &c. 
" The Campanero never fails to attract the attention of the 
passenger ; at a distance of nearly three miles you may hear 
the snow-white bird tolling every four or five minutes, like the 
distant convent-bell." 

" Every now and then, the Maam or Tinamou sends forth 
one long and plaintive whistle from the depths of the forest, 
and then stops." — Waterton's Wanderings in South America 



SYBIL: A TRAGEDY. 



Entered according to Act of Conarress, in the year 1863, 

By JAMES B. KIRKER, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United St«te^ for .he 

Southern District of New York. 



TO 

THOMAS SEATON DONOHO, 

Author of "■ Ivywall," "Cromwell, a Tragedy," etc. 



My Dear Friend- 
It is now eight years since " Sybil" was written, and six 
since it was put upon the stage. In committing it to the press 
I desire to dedicate it to you to mark my regard for you as a 
poet — though you will persist in keeping your light under a 
bushel — and my aflfection for you as the almost daily com- 
panion of over four years' residence in Washington. On whom 
could I more becomingly inflict the dedication of the dranxa ? 
You were the first to mention it in the public press, even be- 
fore its production ; and the sympathetic sharer in its earlier 
successes, when the newspapers brought us accounts of the en- 
thusiasm created by the young and brilliant tragic actress — 
Miss Avonia Jones — then representing the heroine. 

I have never seen Miss Jones in the part, but can well 
imagine how greatly her powerful acting, superadded to her 
admirable presence, tended to kindle the public to a generous 
reception of the piece. 

It is needless now to recall in detail the too flattering recog- 
nition of a majority of the critics — inspired, doubtless, more by 
enthusiasm for the actress than any knowledge of the author 
—or the equally unmerited severity of a minor branch of the 
fraternity. Leaving the latter in the hands of the audiences, I 
ofler sincere acknowledgments to the former. In this connec- 
tion my thanks are especially due to that fine poet and wit, 
George D. Prentice, who, unknown to me save by reputation, 



6 DEDICATION. 

acted as mediator on behalf of Authors' Rights, on an exciting- 
occasion, to which the following letter, addressed to a New 
York journal, refers : — 

" Washington, Oct. 31, 1858. 
" In your paper of yesterday's date the article on the drama 
contained the following : 

"'John Savage's play of "Sybil," after running with great 
enthusiasm, has been withdrawn in consequence of the remon- 
strances of the family where the chief incident occurred. It is 
not, perhaps, known that it is founded on an event which hap- 
pened in Kentucky. Its dramatic success, however, will, no 
doubt, induce Mr. Savage to try again on a less dangerous 
subject.' 

'■ Permit me to say that ' Sybil' has not been withdrawn. 
The acting of it was postponed one night in Louisville, out of 
respect to the request of the Governor of Kentucky, and for 
reasons which the leading journals of Louisville then thought 
sufficient. Owing to. certain criticisms having preceded the 
play, and to the probably injudicious announcement of it by the 
manager in Louis%ille, it was thought by some persons to re- 
flect upon a respectable family in that State, some incidents of 
the play having been suggested by a notable passage in the 
criminal and domestic history of Kentucky. Upon this Suppo- 
sition the play was. after some negotiation, sup})ressed on the 
night for which it was first announced in Louisville. Ujx)n its 
re|)resentation, however, ' Sybil' was declared to be a fiction. 
The Lf)uisville Courier, while paying it such compliments as I 
would blush to reproduce, repudiated the idea that it was a 
representation of facts, and said : * Let it rather be called 
" Sybil," with no attempt to invest it with the terrors of a 
local incident, which it does not attempt to portray according 
to history or tradition.' I willingly accept the proposition of 
the Courier, for as Mr. G. D. Prentice i)reviously said in his 

Journal, 'The author, , knew nothing, and sought to 

know nothing, as to the life and death of , except from 

tradition, and he relied partly upon these, but far more upon 
his own fancy and invention, in the composition of the piece, 
his whole purpose being to render the play, both in incident 
and in language, as effective as he possibly could.' 

" The representation of ' Sybil' was attended by a most re- 
markable success (as the papers testify). Miss Avonia Jones 
was re-engaged for three nights, and performed it each night 
with great enthusiasm on the part of the audience, and in- 
creased honor to herself as an actress of wonderful original 
powers. The details of the ' excitement' I omii, but submit 



DEDICATION. T 

the above facts in explanation and correction of your para- 
graph, which was, no doubt, based upon the articles announc- 
ing the temporary postponement of ' Sybil' in Louisviile. 

" Yours respectfully, 

"John Savage." 



This letter is reprinted in justice to myself, especially aa 
lengthy " Statements" were put forth suggesting an imputation 
on my motives in using the material which furnished the key 
note of the drama. William (lilmore Simms wrote two novels 
on the subject ; Charles Fenno Hoffman, I learn, also made it 
the theme of a novel. Our friend, Clifton W. Tayleure, drew 
a melodrama from it, and the excitement jointly produced 
by the representation of " Sybil" and the Statements against it 
made me acquainted with the fact that other dramas and sto- 
ries had been founded upon it. With much more justice 
might the motives of these authors be impugned, if any such 
imputation be warranted by the use of facts which have gone 
into history. The late distinguished author of the " Blithedale 
Romance," in his preface to that work — fearful lest readers 
might confound his romance with the persons and scenes of a 
certain community — stated, that while availing himself of act- 
ual reminiscences to give a more life-like tint to the creation 
of his fancy, he so used scenes, incidents, and persons, that 
" the creatures of his brain might play their phantasmagorical 
antics without exposing them to too close a comparison with 
the actual events of real lives." The same, in a still greater 
degree, is true of the use of material in " Sybil." 

I would not willingly wound the feelings of any one, much 
less those already seared by tender connection with the victim 
of a foul deed. It does not follow, that because a dramatist, or 
other writer, takes certain incidents as the basis of a work, he 
may not produce them by the means of characters totally dif- 
ferent from those concerned in their actual perpetration. Na- 
tures of a directly opposite stamp may, for all dramatic, poetic, 
and moral purposes, be most suitable to heighten the effect of 
such acts or incidents. It is so in the present instance. Be 
tween the chief Statement, by its own showing, and the story aa 



8 DEDICATION. 

conveyed in this piece, there is but one point of similarity — the 
fact of an assassination. There is no resemblance between the 
contrivers and perpetrators, as respectively drawn ; the charac- 
ter of the victim in the one, is as opposite to that of the other 
as noonday and midnight : and the attempt to create an iden- 
tity between them is as unjust to the memory of the actual, as 
to the dramatist who now presents the acted, character. The 
imfortunate use of a name found in a stray newspaper article, 
which first suggested the theme, and retained in Simms' 
novel — the only one on the subject I was then aware of — and 
to which I was further indebted, gave a clue to a supposed 
identity not to be found on even a casual examination. 
This name has been changed ; and I would not now allude to 
the matter at all, but that when represented, the critics, other- 
Avise but too kind, taking their cue from the original " excite- 
ment," as menti'oned above, constantly refer to it; and on giv- 
ing it to the press, I could not run the risk of having my 
silence construed into even a remote acquiescence in the injus- 
tice of the Statements, so far as they refer to " Sybil" or its 
author. 

After such an unpleasant, though necessary digression, I 
may be permitted to refresh myself A^ith memories more suit- 
able to my nature — thoughts conjured up by reminiscences of 
our homes in Washington, and of days spent with you on the 
hills of Maryland and Virginia and along the then delightful 
banks of the Potomac. The mention of Wasliington evokes 
memories of an eventful and instructive, even if laborious 
l)eriod of my life, and the social and generous companionship 
of many dear friends : it calls up the hospitable and brilliant 
board of John F. Coyle ; the serene enjoyment and unflagging 
interest of the statesmen-groups gathered around our benign 
host of Strawberry Knoll, Mr. Kingman ; the trusty good na- 
ture of my friend of many years. Dr. Thomas Antisell ; the 
pleasant hours in the artistic salon of J. C. McGuire ; besides, 
a host, out of which it would be ungracious to individualize, 
many of whom have since gone forth from rival camps, and 
found a resting-place, once again, side by side — in death. You 
know my sense of duty to my country — and I will not dwell 
on that theme here lest the passions, which mortality cannot 



DEDICATION. 9 

aliake off, miglit arise to crush out the beauty of the past. In 
dedicating this little book to you, I could not repress a tribute 
to days past, and to the friends who contributed so much to 
make them joyous and happy. 
With great esteem, 

I beg to subscribe myself. 

Your friend, 

John Savage. 
New Orleans, Sept. 14, 1864. 



DRAMATIS PEKSONJi. 



Eustace Clifden. 

RuFus Wolfe. 

Old Acton. 

William Acton. 

Mr. Lowe. 

Barnabas. 

Landlord of the Rkd Hkifer 

Gentlemen. 

Sybil Hardy. 
Mrs. Hardy. 
Maude Clifden. 
Janette. 



ScKNR — /// the State of Kentucky. 

Time. — B^rd decade of the Nmeteeuth Century. 



SYBIL. 

4 » » 

ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Club-room, handsomely furnished. 

RuFUS Wolfe, Barnabas, Mr. Lowe, and several gen- 
tlemen, reading papers, &c. 

Wolfe. Our new member is not stirring yet. 

\st Gent. No — thanks to your sleight of hand last 
night. I should not be surprised if he didn't stir for a 
month. 

2d Gent. I never saw a jollier initiation I 

Bar. He may not be so jolly when he's sober. 

Wolfe. Oh, he won't remember his assaults on our 
friend Lowe : eh, Cardinal ? 

Lowe. But I'll take care he shall. 

Wolfe. He's young and inexperienced ; and the deeds 
of wine evaporate with its effects. 

Bar. I never saw a wilder fellow in his cups. 

Wolfe, /thought him rather serious. Did not you, 
Cardinal? {To Lowe.) 

Lowe. I tell you what, gentlemen, I'll resign my 
presidency of this club, if I'm not protected against 
every dare-devil, who, inspired by Wolfe's mad humors, 
plays off his drunken jokes on me — I will. 

3 



14 SYBIL, [ACT I. 

All. No — no. Ha I ha ! 

Lowe. I will, gentlemen, — I do protest I will, — if it 
even shatters the unity of the society — I will. 
Several. Oh, no. 

Enter Eustace Clifden. 

Is^ Gent. Our new member ! 

Wolfe. Good morning, Clifden. 

Several. Good morning. {Salute him.) 

Glif. Good mornings gentlemen. (Goes to Lowe.) Mr. 
Lowe, I am very glad to see you here ; it saves me the 
necessity of calling upon you. 

Wolfe. Brnvo, Clifden ! 

Lowe. Calling upon me, sir I for what, Mr. Clifden ? 

Wolfe. For what ? Oh, innocent Cardinal — for satis- 
faction, to be sure. 

Lowe. Sir, 1^11 resign this moment. 

Clif. Allow me, Mr. Lowe, to apologize for my rude- 
ness to you last night. I was not conscious of it, I as- 
sure you ; and I am indebted to the kindness of some 
friends for the information this morning. 

Loive. You were rude, sir, that you were. 

Glif. I am sorry for it, Mr. Lowe ; sorry that J 
should, without cause, affront any man, but more espe- 
cially one whose position should be sufficient protection 
against insult. I sincerely apologize. 

\st Gent. I should think an apology from any membei 
of the club, for any reason, decidedly inexcusable. 

Several. Decidedly — decidedly. 

Clif. [calmly.) It was, sir, thoroughly unwarrantable 
on my part to offer a rudeness to you ; and I say again, 
I apologize. 

Lowe. It was unwarrantable • but, sir, since you have 



SCENE t] sybil. 15 

the manliness to apologize, I give you my hand (Lowe 
and Glifden shake hands), and I hope you have safely 
survived the pains of initiation. 

Wolfe. Does the head ache still ? 
Bar. Are the nerves disordered ? 

1st Gent. Hand shaky ? 

Lowe. In a word, my good sir, are you washed out ? 
Ha! ha I 

Clif. No, but to say truth, I feel inexpressibly 
ashamed. 

Bar. and 1st and 2d Gent. Ha ! ha ! he ! 

Wolfe. Nonsense, man. 

Glif. I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your 
club. 

Wolfe. Persuade I 'Twas scarcely possible to avoid 
it. Every young lawyer, to be recognized, must go 
through it. 

Bar. Your regrets are treasonable. 

Glif. I feel them, nevertheless. I must have been 
wild, if what I hear be true. 

1st Gent. Slightly elevated, that's all. 

Glif. I never was slightly elevated before, and, club 
or no club, I never will be again. 

Wolfe. We have all said the same thing once. 

Glif I cannot, even now, understand it. I drank but 
little wine. 

Lowe. Precious little. Ha ! ha I But you may thank 
Wolfe's adroitness in mingling the liquors. 

Glif What I 

Wolfe. Pshaw, Clifden, you were never born for a 
Puritan. You are a fellow for fun, high frolic, and the 
enjoyment of the earth. 

Ist Gent. Certainly, and if a man may forget himself 



U SYBIL. [ACT. I. 

and be mad for a night, it is that night when he is ad- 
mitted to the Temple of Anacreon. Don't take it so 
seriously. 

Bar. All over now, you know. 

Lowe. You are young, sir, and likely to be abused ; 
take the advice of an older man — these gay fellows are 
making fun of you, Mr. Clifden. 

Several. Ha ! ha ! Good I 

\d Gent. Very good, your reverence I 

Lowe. He ! he I he ! you puppies, I shall leave you 
to your politics. {Going.) I see young Acton is in the 
field against you {to Wolfe) ; take care lest you force me 
into the opposition. {Exit, followed by the gents.) 

Wolfe. Yes, Acton is in the field against me, and I 
need the services of all my friends. I count on you, 
Clifden. 

Clif Whatever I can, I will do ; but — 

Wolfe. No huts. You are already popular, and the 
time is auspicious. The life of a man almost depends on 
his first marked effort. You are just admitted to the 
bar, and with your reputation as a speaker here, some- 
thing is expected of you. There could not be a better 
opportunity to distinguish yourself. You must meet 
Acton in discussion. 

Clif Me f He will need a stronger opponent. Why 
not do this yourself? 

Wolfe. I long for nothing better, but I cannot be 
everywhere. I'll seek him in time. When do you leave 
town ? 

Clif To-day ; within the hour. 

Bar. So soon? 

Wolfe. Why, I expected you to dinner ; Mrs. Wolfe 
will be disappointed. 



SCENE I.] SYBIL. H 

Clif. I am sorry to deny myself the }3leasure, but 
urgent matters — very urgent indeed — demand my pres- 
ence. 

Ba7\ But a day or two ? 

GHf. I wrote to — to — my sister — 

Wolfe. What of that. A Httle delay will make you 
the more welcome. Let the girls wait ; don't be a boy 
always. You will meet some excellent fellows, see how 
we commence the campaign, and so forth. 

Bar. Strong temptations. 

Clif. Yes, but I confess to my boyhood, and will 
prove my manhood by resisting your temptations. 

Wolfe. Stubborn. Well, I will write to you then. 
I have a strong desire — apart from my own interests — to 
see you in the field. 

Clif. Thank you, I shall hear from you. Adieu. 

Wolfe. 



o \ Adieu. [Shake hands.) [Exit Clif. 

Wolfe. He does not know his own powers. We must 
bring him fully out. 

Bar. 'Tis not so easy to meet Acton. What is there 
against him ? 

Wolfe. His pamphlet. Every line a man writes is 
political capital for his enemies. Then, he is obscure, 
that's certain. Little known among the masses, and for 
a good reason — he does not mix with them ; he is a 
haughty aristocrat, a man who only knows the people 
when he wants their votes. 

Bar. Is that actually the case ? 

Wolfe. Simpleton ! We must make it so. 

Bar. Oh — ah — yes. 

Wolfe. It may be, or may not be, what is the differ- 
ence to us. That he is shy and reserved is, I understand, 
2* 



18 SYBIL. [ACT I. 

a fact. Well, it is just as likely he is so from pride as 
any thing else, do you see ? Perhaps he's a fellow of 
delicate feelings I So much the better. People don't 
like fellows of delicate feelings. Ha I ha ! Delicate 
feelings are very unpopular things. They alone would 
go hard against him. If we could have him persuaded 
to wear kid gloves it would save us a few thousand. 
Kid gloves are not popular ; if any thing, they are more 
ruinous than the feelings aforesaid. Then he is cautious 
of taverns. Couldn't the popular eye discover a demi- 
john in his study — ay, could it ! Ha ! ha ! Pride, ten- 
der feelings, kid gloves, private demijohn — political 
death, certain. Come along, Barnabas, old boy, we 
must let the people know of these things. 

[Exit Wolfe and Bar. 

Scene II. — On the skirt of a wood overlooking the ruined Ullage 
of Eaglemont. 

Enter Old Acton and William Acton. 

Old A. {contemplating the scene). We are here 
again, William ; here, without a single companion of all 
those old ones who were associated with that once dear 
village ; and yet we are not without some of the old 
friends — the old trees and rocks and hills are about us. 
Bless me, I feel the former life, if not the old feelings ; 
yet, what a change. Five years have done it all. Five 
years only, yet what an eternity it seems. 

Acton. I see no sign of human life. 

Old A. Indeed, it looks as if there were none. Shall 
we descend into the valley and inquire further ? 

Acton. Why, sir, further? Here, it seems to me, we 
can 



SCENE n.] SYBIL. IP 

Behold enough for melancholy thought. 
See — yonder ruins of* my father's home ; 
There I first wak'd to this now weary world ; 
There was a child ; there sprang from youth to man, 
Beneath the touch of Love's delicious hopes — 
Hopes which, alas, that same old roof saw blasted. 

Old A. And there my school-house stands, as years 
ago. 
Save that it glooms with age and loneliness. 
I could embrace my dear old fav'rite oaks ! 
They seem to w^elcome me with outstretched arms ; 
Or, it may be, they wave me from the scene. 
How much do they recall ! Their shapes have grown 
Into my heart with the old books I've read 
Beneath their patriarchal shelter. 

Acton (musing). How brief a term makes life deso- 
lation ? 
Why shall we wonder that no vestige marks 
The spots where stood the cities of the past ; 
When here, what was, a few short years ago, 
A thriving, robust village, is but now 
A bundle of old gables ? 

Old A. Discontent 

Between a couple of families, my son, 
Has sundered towns more populous than this. 
This very cause made you the first to leave. 

Acton. Yes, but not willingly I left my home — 
A loving heart, a cruel, brutal fate 
Drove me from out my native sanctuary. 

Old A. Well, I rc^'oice that it was so. The necessity 
which expelled you was the mother of a glorious future. 
It brought out the manhood that was in you, and will 
crown vour name with honor. 



20 SYBIL. [ACT I. 

Acton, Yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all — 
All that I am, all that I hope to be, 
For the dear dreams that fill'd my boyhood's home. 

Old A. No, no. To-morrow, when you return to the 
political action you have entered upon, you will feel 
how idle was the sentiment, seeming so natural to you 
now. What ? If this was the scene of your sports and 
love, was it not also the theatre of your denial, your 
strife, and bitter humiliation : would you feel those pangs 
anew ? 

Acton. No, no ; do not remind me. See there — see ! 
(Catching Old Acton^s arm.) Dost not descry a female 

figure ? There — 
Below the copse : 'Tis lost now. There, again, 
Auear the margin of the lake it stands. 
It looks like her I Could it be Margaret ! 

Old A, I see. 

Acton. Stay, father — I would speak with her. (Going, 
Old A. detains him.) 

Old A. Why should ye speak — have you any thing 
pleasant to communicate to each other ? You are un- 
reasonable, my son. ( William subdued.) And tell me, 
William, is it still in your mind to marry Margaret 
Cooper. 

Acton. Oh no, sir — no ! How could you suppose it ! 

Old ^. I do not suppose it ; therefore I say you are 
unkind, cruel, my son, in your attempt to see that woman 
you believed to be her. You have no business with her. 

Acton. Father — my more than father, you are right. I 
deserve reproof. 'Twas a blind impulse. I am a boy 
still. Let us leave this place. 

Old A. Forget these dreams. All your thoughts 
need other direction now. Your antagonist if less able; 



SCENE III.] SYBIL. 21 

is a more practised politician, and works upon a very 
perfect organization. 

Acton. I was not made for political strife. 

Old A. It is the very sphere of action that will at- 
tract you from the chimeras of fancy and boyhood. 
When you have a seat in Congress you will, in the ex- 
pansive field before you, forget that such a little village 
as this beneath us has ever been on a map. Come, Wil- 
liam, to-morrow will see us harnessed for the fight. 
[Exit Old Acton, leading William Acton. 

Scene III. — A Boom in Clifden's Country Cottage, neatly 
furnished. 

Maude Clifden, Janette, seated. 

Maude. Brother Eustace is outstaying his time. I 
am the more anxious for his return, because I thought 
he left us in rather a melancholy mood. Did you not 
think so ? 

Jan. Do not fear but he will keep his appointment. 
Even if he would disappoint us, there are other attrac- 
tions in this neighborhood from which he would not wil- 
lingly remain distant. ( Taking a book from the table.) 
See there, Maude. 

Maude {reading from fly-leaf). "Sybil Hardy." 
Why, what a rogue — he never mentioned he had met her. 

Jan. Which only proves the truth of what I say. 

Maude. Where did you find this ? 

Jan. On his dressing-table. 

Maude. Ah, Eustace, we have found you out. Well, 
I'm glad of it — am't you ? There will be some reason 
for his staying with us now — we have scarcely seen him 
since he went studying that stupid law. 



22 SYBIL [act I. 

Jan. I would it were some other than our melancholy 
neighbor. 

Maude. Why, Janette, I do believe you are jealous. 

Jan. If I were I would not show it, Maude. 

Maude. Ha ! ha ! why 'twas but yesterday you said 
jealousy was the only thing a woman could not hide. 

Jan. Well — yes, a woman who was in love. 

Maude. Of course, a woman could not be jealous 
without being in love. 

Jan. But she might love without being jealous, 

Maude. And that is what my cousin could not do. 

Jan. (ivho has 7'etired towards the iui?idoic.) Here 
he is. Look how he steals along, as though he were 
going to a friend's funeral ; and now he stops, and dal- 
lies, and looks behind hun, as if expecting some one. 

Maude. Does he not look handsome — so tall and 
graceful. 

Jan. There's a cloud upon his brow. 

Maude. We will dispel it. Here he comes. 

Enter Eustace Clifden. 

Welcome, brother. {Embraces him.) 

Glif. Ah — dear Maude. Has Cousin Janette no wel- 
come for me ? She forgets the customs of our childhood, 
when she would cling to me as a vine round the trellis. 

Jan. And Eustace then told all his secrets to his lit- 
tle cousin. 

Maude. Yes, indeed. Ah, ha I brother, we have 
found you out. [Glif den puzzled.) 

Jan. {Showing the book.) Eh, Master Cunning ! 

Clif. So, Miss Pry-about. Well, Coz, kiss me and I'll 
tell you all about it. 

Maude. There now, make up. {Pulling them togeth- 



SCENE III.] SYBIL. 23 

e.r, Glifden kisses Janette, who offers coy resistance — 
they all sit.) 

Jan. You did not tell us of your visits to Miss Hardy. 

Clif. You did not tell me that such a beauty adorued 
the vicinity. 

Jan. Do you think her a beauty? 

Maude. Of course he does. {To him.) Well, how 
did you meet her ? 

Clif. Well, when home last week I went out snoo: 
ing— 

Jan. And was struck yourself. 

Maude. Now, Janette. 

Clif. I went out shooting, or to shoot ; and, toiling 
after game in the wood, started, by a lucky shot, a 
young lady from the thicket : common courtesy com- 
manded me to apologize — 

Maude. Of course. 

Clif. And see that the frighted creature was not hurt — 

Jan. Or pierced through the heart. 

Clif. She, however, avoided me. 

Jan. Of course, to drag you after her. 

Maude. Oh, Janette, how can you. 

Clif. She hastened, with becoming delicacy, to the 
open path. I followed, and though she declined my ser- 
vice as escort, I continued, gently insisting, until she 
came within sight of her cottage. 

Jan. Did you not go home with her ? 
Clif. No ; but on my return through the wood I 
found — fortunate discovery — ^her veil, which I restored 
next day ; and made bold to borrow that book — and 
that's all. 

Maude. Quite an adventure ; how could you keep it 
from us ? 



24 SYBIL. [ACTl. 

Jan. It was too charming for expression. Why, he^s 
blushing, as I live. Ha ! ha ! 

Glif. Tut, tut, Janette^nonsense !— just heated with 
walking. 

Jan. Heated, indeed, at a snail's pace. You saunter* 
ed along, and looked from side to side, as though think- 
ing whether you'd go over to Miss Hardy's or come here ; 
and sighed — oh, dear ! you could be heard half a mile 
away. 

CAif. Sigh — oh, ridiculous. (Sighs.) What do you 
know of the lady — eh, Maude ? Janette, who is she ? 

Jan. She's a mystery of some sort or another. May- 
be an exiled queen, good lack, or she wants to be thought 
one. 

Maude. Oh, Janette I 

Jan. Well, is it not true ? Does she not carry herself 
like a queen, and is she not as proud and stately as if 
she would remind us all we were beneath her. 

Glif. She certainly does look queenly. 

Jan. A tragedy-queen! 

Maude. I'm sure she is unhappy. 

Jan. I don't believe in her unhappiaess at all. She 
is too proud to be so unhappy as you think. 

Glif. Might not pride itself be the very cause or the 
effect of unhappiness ? 

Jan. But are we to sympathize with it ? 

Glif. {to Maude). How long has she resided here- 
about ? 

Maude. She and her mother came some two yeafsi 
ago— just after you left us to study law. They bought 
the Widow Davis's cottage, and fixed themselves and a 
few servants very comfortably. Mrs. Hardy is a good- 
natured body. 



SCENE m.] SYBIL. 25 

Jan. And very silly. I don't believe she is the mother 
of our queen at all. 

Glif. {to Maude). And the daughter ? — 

Ilaude. She is not very sociable. She is seldom seen 
by casual visitors ; and, indeed, has not been here more 
than four or five times. Janette thinks her proud, but I 
do not. Her manners are dignified ; but there is such a 
look of sadness in her eyes, that I cannot help thinking 
her unhappy. Probably she has been disappointed in 
love. 

Jan. Maude is making a heroine of her. One day 
she is a recluse ; another, she has been engaged, and her 
lover played false and deserted her — 

Maude. No, I said he might have been killed in a 
duel, as any man might be for such a woman. 

Glif. Bravo— bravo — Maude ! 

Jan. 'Tis well you're not a man, Maude, or our trage- 
dy-queen would help to kill our cousin. 

Maude, Is she not beautiful ? Is she not, brother ? 
They say, too, that she is intellectual and learned. 

Glif. Who says ? 

Jan. Who, but old Mrs. Fisher, and solely because 
she saw her fixing a basketful of books on her shelves. 

3Iaude. Why, Judge Weldon told me he spoke with 
her, and that he never believed a woman could be so 
sensible before. 

Jan. That only shows what a poor judge he is. 

Maude. But Miss Hardy is sensible. I have spoken 
with her myself. 

Jan. Well, she's old enough to have the sense of two 
young women at least. 

Glif. Old ? the lady I mean is certainly not old. 

Maude. Cousin Janette is only teazing, thinking that 
3 



26 SYBIL. [actt. 

our lovely, but melancholy friend, has bewitched you. 
She is not old, cannot be more than one or two and 
twenty. 

Jan. And is not that old? you are but sixteen, 
Maude, and I'm not eighteen — I'm sure Miss Hardy is 
twenty-five if she^s a day. 

Maude. Come, come, Janette, if you stay another 
minute you'll have Miss Hardy a gaunt old lady, with a 
few teeth and a pair of spectacles. 

[_Exit Maude and Janette, laughing. 

Glif. Maude is right— Sybil's truly beautiful I 
Oh, why have I not known her before now. 
The moment I but glanced into her eyes 
I read my destiny. I look'd and loved. 
From the creative heaven of her face 
A whole new world leaped into my heart ; 
A world teeming with a thousand hopes, 
Each taking inspiration from tliat face. 
I've heard, but never felt its truth till now, 
That persons of congenial souls exchange 
Themselves on first collision of their eyes. 
She has my being, and to win her not 
Is to abandon and forsake myself. 
How much I've lived within a week, and yet, 
My very strength of feeling calls up fears 
That goad me with a reckless speed to know, 
If I may not in her heart's empire dwell. 
As she fills up the whole domain of mine. 

\_MusiG as act drop falls 



SiCENEi] SYBIL. 27 



ACT II. 

ScENS I. — A wood. A 'paper mark on trunk of a tree. Sybil 
Hardy discovered in the foreground firing at the mark with 
a pistol. After firing, Sybil looks with calm eagerness at tJie 



Sybil. Thank heaven, I fail not ; each unerring- shot 
Is certain intimation of revenge, 
And daily gives me courage to live on. {3Iov('s.) 
Without this all-sustaining, grateful hope, 
The solitude I breathe were death : and death 
That might have been a heav'nly gift, ere fled 
Mj happy childhood trembling from my heart 
(As though affrighted by its haughty blood). 
Would now be that most unforgiving curse 
This wilful, woful, wretched brain could bear. 
Five years, like monumental marbles rise 
Above my girlish beauty, and record 
The gnawing consciousness of coarse deceit, 
The bitter anguish of defrauded hopes. 
Mocked aims ; the loss of name, position, love ; 
The loss of all those dear amenities 
That should have been the guerdon and the guide. 
The life itself of the proud, withered youth beneath, 

(Weeps.) 
'Tis strange these maddening, these blighting years 
Have left untouched one corner of my brain : 
That here, far distant from the village where 
I ruled, already in my youth a queen ; 
Far from my friends' condole, my foes' contempt, 
That here unknown, unfriended — save by one. 



28 SYBIL. [ACTTi. 

A doting mother, whose unwavering heart 
Still dulls her ears to censure, and whose eyes 
Still fling a tearful glory round her child — 
I teach the woman in her pallid prime 
T' avenge my girlhood's blushing trustfulness. 
(Starts.) Here is my neighbor whom I fear to meet, 
And yet there is a restless sympathy. 
Some dread, electric chain that brings us close. 
I would avoid him : would that he would me. 
Oh heaven ! that I were younger by five years. {Con- 
ceals the pistol.) 

Enter Eustace Clifden. 

Clifden, Ah, Miss Hardy, pardon my intrusion. It 
was unintentional. 

Sybil. Your presence is pardonable, Mr. Clifden, but 
scarcely your excuse. 

Glif. I feared my presence would but awaken a dis- 
dain, that one of us, at least, should bear unanswered. 

Sybil. Sir, I fear you understand yourself less than 
you even understand me. I shall relieve your feelings 
by withdrawing. {Going.) 

Glif. Stay, Miss Hardy. {Goes after her.) 
Sybil, dear Sybil, do not leave me thus : 
Hear me but for a moment. Well I know, 
After what has transpired, that I am 
Bound to your pity, mercy, or contempt. 
But an absorbing love like mine fears not 
The self-reproaches of a callous pride. 
That tames the blood of those who think they love. 
Love is a slave, yet those who think they have 
Timely control of all its dang'rous ecstasies 



SCENE L] SYBIL. 29 

Have never loved — or have no power to love. 
You bid me go, but I dare not depart. 

Sybil. Clifden, 'twere wrong to listen yet again, 
To what 'twere better I had never heard. 
I must not — better for us both I should not. 
You found me here in solitude. To me 
You were a stranger. Strangers each to each. 
You nothing know of me : — of you, I nothing. 
Let us be friends as neighbors : — seek no more : 
If not, then let us part. 

Clif. Know nothing of you ! 

Sybil, ask your heart. 

Sybil (energetically). Ha! sir! what mean you ? 
What can you know of me ? 

Glif. (Sybil betrays much anxiety,) Much ! 
These solemn cloistered woods are witnesses — 
These oaks that eloquently stretch their arms 
To heaven, and bless you in their sheltering calm — 
These my loved rivals for affection, feel 
In thy dear presence what I proudly know ; 
That you among earth's fairest are alone — 
Alone in beauty, in intellect alone I 
This do I know and feel ; and is not this 
All that I ever wish to know. 

Sybil (staggering and faint). Thank heaven ! (Aside.) 

Glif. (supporting her). You are ill — 

Sybil. Do not be alarmed, I (regains her position) — 
I am better now (disengages herself) ; I am subject to 
such attacks, and they form a sufficient reason, Mr. Clif- 
den, why I should not distress strangers with them. 

Clif. Strangers ! but 1 to whom love makes you all — 
To whom the hope — 

3* 



30 SYBIL. [act II. 

Sybil. Hope ! — hope nothing from me. 

T would not have you hope in vain. 

CUf. That kind desire assures me that I may not. 

Sybil. You deceive yourself Do not question me 

This meeting has awakened in my brain 
Many a dreary thought. Again I say, 
As, Eustace Clifden, I before have said, 
I am divided, cut off from the world. 
How or why it matters not : it is so. 

Glif. Your destiny, dim as you paint its path, 
But throbs my heart with willingness to share 
And soothe it. 

Sybil. That can never be. 

Glif. If you but knew my heart — 

Sybil. Enough that I do know my own ; and it 
Has but one prayer, for peace ; one passion, and that — 

CUf. Is — relieve me, Sybil — but say not you love 
Another. 

Sybil {scornfully). Love I no sir, I do not love. 
Happily I am free from such a weakness. 

Glif Is that a weakness which inspires all strength, 
And gives the only purpose life possesses ? 

Sybil. When we met I hoped I had met a friend. 
And now I grieve that we have ever met. 

Glif I pray, thee, Sybil, do not wrong me in this 
decision. 

Sybil. I do not. Your worth, your generous soul 
And loving nature well I know. 
You've offered me far more than I deserve ; 
More than I dare accept — 

Glif Then you would — 

Sybil. Ay : 

Were it possible I could ever wed. 



SYBIL. ' 31 

I do not know a mortal unto whom 
I could so well my best affections trust, 
As to you, Eustace : but that cannot be. 
There is between us a broad barrier — 

Glif. What barrier can come between us 
That we ourselves will not ! Here face to face, 
Before the smiling face of heaven, what 
Can separate us. This barrier, Sybil, 
Is but some gloomy mountain of the mind, 
Which I can speedily surmount. Whate'er 
Stout heart and willing hand can do, I'll do. 
What is it ? 

Sybil. The very question deeper makes the gulf 
And lifts the barrier higher : it opes 
A breach that might an angry ocean bed. 
Reveal it ! Powers of Innocence and Truth (adde) 
I cannot, dare not. 'Tis enough I ne'er 
Can listen to your prayer — or be your wife. 

Glif. Sybil— 

Sybil. Nor the wife of any man. 
I entreat thee ask no more : — you'll drive me mad. 
Farewell, Eustace, farewell. {Going, hefoUoim.) Do 

not follow 
If you love me. We must not meet again. 
[He droops and kisses her hand.) Farewell. 

[Exit Sybii . 

Scene II. — Street. 
Enter- RvFus Wolfe, Barnabas, and Mr. Lowe. 

Wolfe. But, Lowe, my dear friend, you do not mean 
to come out for Acton, eh ? I really cannot do without 
}our services. 

3 



32 SYBIL. [ACT II. 

Lowe. Well, the fact is, I have no settled political 
opinions : I have not made up my mind on the one 
hand, and on the other I believe young Mr. Acton, 
whom I have met sometimes, to be a very good and 
clever fellow. Indeed, I think he would be a very seri- 
ous addition to our club. 

Bar. A very serious addition, no doubt. 

Loice. Well, I've been thinking, Wolfe, if I had two 
votes I would give you one each ; but as I have only 
one, I have almost determined not to hurt either of my 
friends by using it. 

Wolfe. A most unpatriotic speech — 

Bar. And opposed to the best interests of the com- 
munity ; for if you are not wholly with us, you are 
against us. Besides, every one should know the right 
side and use the privilege of citizenship. 

Lowe. But, my gay fellows, I really do not know the 
})oints at issue, if any, between the parties. 

Bar. Pshaw ! go for your friends, and hang the 
points at issue. You know our friend Wolfe. Every- 
body knows him ; while Acton, on the contrary, is but 
of a few years' growth amongst us. It is nothing but 
personal ambition with him. 

Lowe. I think you mistake the young man, or I do. 

Wolfe (motioning to Barnabas). Our worthy presi- 
dent is right, but he will pledge us his silence ; for next 
to his aid for us, is his silence for our antagonist. 

Lowe. Ah, Colonel, very graceful, I assure you, but 
you overrate me as much as Barnabas underrates Acton. 
Wolfe. Acton's address is written well and artfully. 

Bar. Rather puritanical. 

Wolfe. You must admit. Cardinal, my good friend, 
that he comes rather disadvantageously into the field 



SCENE m.] SYBIL. 33 

just now. A few years hence and he might have an 
opening. 

Lowe. Well, well, to be sure ; but a man may as well 
commence some time, you know. By the way, have you 
any objection to meet him ? 

Wolfe. Not at all, but quite the contrary. It is no 
reason, because we are political rivals, why we should 
not be personal friends. 

Lowe. I meet the old gentleman this evening, at his 
lodgings at the Red Heifer. If you agree to call for 
me, I will be happy to prepare him for an introduction. 

Wofe. Certainly — what say you, Barnabas ? 

Bar. I am agreed. 

Lowe. At eight {going). 

Both. Eight. \_Exit Lowe. 

Wolfe. Then we can the better see the mettle of this 
stripling, and judge what strength we must put forth. 

Bar. His friends are enthusiastic, and busy every- 
Vvhere. 

Wolfe. And mine are nearly asleep. We must arouse 
them. Come. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Boom in the Bed Heifer Inn. 

William Acton seated thoughtfully at a table. 

Acton. Five years of what the world calls success 
Have passed ; yet still my rustic memories cling 
About my honors with a saddening gloom. 
'Tis only action makes the present light ; 
Each resting moment brings the weighty past. 
Her image ever pleads before my thought 
With strange prophetic feeling — now bright as dawn, 
Pure in the opening bounty of its light ; 



34 SYBIL. [ACT II. 

And then, as dismal as a shadow cast 
Across some ravine where a hidden stream 
Gurgles and moans with wretched energy. 
Two images of one, and how unlike each other. 
One, like the eagle soaring in the sun. 
Its brave soul bounding with the air of heaven ; 
And proud eye looking down a scorn on earth. 
The other, gloomy as the great bird, caged, 
Tattered in plumage and with broken wing, 
Fettered in spirit, and its eyes grown weak 
With madly gazing at obscurity. 

Enter Old Acton. 

Old A. {aside). Pondering still, ever on the sad old 
theme — 
(Slaps him on the bach) Dreaming of fame and fortune 
in your grasp ? 

Acton. {Sighs.) The scene we witnessed yesterday has 
dragg'd 
All the old associations up. 
They crowd the glories of the present out. 

Old A. But you must leave the past where it left you 
I tell thee, William, that your loss in youth 
Was the most fortunate of all your gains. 
Great as they have been. 

Acton, My gain was great, indeed. 

In having you adopt me as your son. 

Old A. Your own strong character has been your 
crown. 
Had your wild passions won a tame success 
You'd soon have sunk into the dull routine 
And healthy torpor of the farmer's life. 
The subtle knowledge of yourself were lost, 



SCENE III.] SYBIL. 35 

Which only disappoiutmeut made you find. 
The raging troubles of a blighted heart 
Comfort themselves in the disguise of pride, 
Which with the insight into life love breeds, 
Gives talent concentration, and makes man 
Strong to bear up 'gainst nature's keen delusions. 
The time will come you'll wonder this girl e'er 
Could have been dear to you. 

Acton. Never, never. 

Old. A. The passion of the boy, is but a boy passion. 

Acton. My mind had not then reached the easy width 
Which yields an entrance to the grosser thoughts 
Of years. My heart alone was living then ; 
And lived but in the thought of her. 

Old A. Years bring grossness only to the gross. 
Had you your rival's knowledge of the world 
You might have been successful. Simply he 
Held up the mirror to her vanity 
And pleased her with herself. He fed lier with 
Her own ambition ; little troubling him 
With her affections, which he soon found were 
All bonded to her brain. This made her bold 
And confident in fancied strength that proved 
Her total weakness. He knew her nature. 

Acton. It maddens me to hear the villain's name. 
I'd freely give up all — all I have won. 
All that you fondly hope I'll win, to know. 
Where at this moment I could place my hand 
Upon his throat. 

Old A. Would that restore her 

To her peace of mind, or obliterate 
Your memories ? 

Acton, No, but it would drag 



36 SYBIL. [act II 

The libertine from bold obscurity, 
To public retribution and disgrace. 

Old A. Which would with equal scandal fall upon 
His wretched victim. See what you would do. 

Acton. 'Tis true. Father, I yield to you, my best. 
My wisest, and most loving counsellor. 

Old A. 'Tis sad, and false in spirit as in deed. 
To know and feel society's so formed, 
That we must often chain the tongue to save 
That very one, whose wrongs the loudest call 
For honest vindication. 

Enter Mr. Lowe. 

Welcome, Mr. Lowe, welcome. 

Acton. I feared you had forgotten us. 

Lowe. Not so ; indeed, my dear sir, I remembered 
you so well that I refused to take any side in politics lest 
I might injure your prospects. 

Acton. How so ? 

Lowe. Well, by taking part with Wolfe, or by adopt- 
ing your side, in not being able to expound it. 

Old A. Could you expound the opposition ? 

Lowe. By my word, I did not think of that : but 
you can have an opportunity of hearing an authority on 
that head if you so desire. 

Acton. The more we know of it the better shall we be 
able to refute it. 

Lowe. You have never met your opponent Colonel 
Wolfe ? 

Acton. Not to my knowledge. 

Lowe. He knows your reputation ; and as you are 
both lawyers, and understand the courtesy due to rivalry, 
[ asked him to stop here for me as he was passing. 



BCENEiii.] SYBIL. 37 

Old A. You did well, friend Lowe, to initiate the con- 
test with a friendly feeling. 

Enter Landlord of Red Heifer. 

Landlord {uneasily). Squire-^ 

Old A. What's the matter ? 

Land. The place is a' most besieged with a gang of 
fellows belonging to the t'other side. They'll ruin me 
'fore election day comes on. There won't be left a tod- 
dy in the town. {Hun^ahs outside.) There they go, and 
Colonel Wolfe himself's at the head of them. 

Old A. Colonel Wolfe — Mr. Lowe's friend — show 
him up. 

Land. Wolfe ! {in amazement) up here ! 

Old A. Yes, up here ; and give his friends good wel- 
come down below. [^Exit Landlord.] Ha ! ha ! the 
landlord, who's an ardent partisan of ours, can scarcely 
reconcile Wolfe's presence in the enemy's headquarters. 

Enter Rufus Wolfe and Barnabas. 

Lowe [meeting them). Up to time, sirs. (Addressing 
all parties.) Now, gentlemen, introduce yoursdves as 
fearless rivals ought. 

Barnabas smirkingly approaches Old Acton, who ex- 
tends his hand. 

Old A, Welcome, gentlemen. 

Wolfe [advancing to Wm. Acton). Mr. William Ac- 
ton, I believe ; I am Colonel Wolfe. 

Acton, [suddenly withdrawing his extended hand 
and peering steadfastly at Wolfe). You, sir, Rufus 
Wolfe ? — You ? [General surprise.) 

Wolfe. What is this ? 

4 



38 SYBIL. [ACT 11. 

I am Colonel Wolfe ; and you, sir — 
Are you not Mr. William Acton ? 

Acton. Ay, sir, 

And Acton cannot know Colonel Wolfe. 

Old A. (coming to Acton, aside). What do yon 
mean, my son — why this strange anger ? 

Acton (to old A.). Do you not see? Do you not 
recognize ? (Pj^esses his forehead. Wolfe and Barna- 
bas confer aside,) 

Lowe. What the deuce is this ? I surely am not in 
the club. 

Wolfe (to Loive). I demand an explanation. 

Bar. (to Acton). Yes, sir, you must explain why you 
cannot 
Know my friend. 

Acton. For the simple reason that 

I know him far too well already. 

Wolfe. Know me ? 

Acton. As a villain — a base, consummate villaiiK 
( Wolf efuriousli; grapples mih Acton, who flings 
him off. The parties present interfere.) 

Wolfe. Unhand me, Barnabas : shall I submit 
To a blow — 

Bar. No ; but this is not the way — 

Wolfe. You ai*e right — there must be blood : see 
to it. 

Bar. (to Wolfe). Stand back. We must have an 
apology, or a meeting. Sir, an ample apology. 

Acton. Apology ! To that worthless scoundrel ? 
You much mistake me, gir. 'Twould seem, likewise. 
You equally mistake your friend. He will 
Scarcely demand one when he knows me. 

(Wolfe tries to distinguish Acton.) 



SCENE III.] SYBIL. 39 

Lowe. "What does all this mean ! 

Bar. Who, then, are you, sir ? 

Acton. Nay, sir, speak for your friend ; who has I 
deem, 
As many aliases as any rogue 
Of London. Let Colonel Wolfe, if such be 
In truth his name — 

Lowe. It is his name. 

Bar. Why do you doubt it ? 

Acton. I have known him by 

Another — one associated with 
The foulest infamy. 

Wolfe (aside). Ha ! 

Acton (looting full at Wolfe). Look at me, Alfred 
Stevens, 
For such I still must call you : — look on me. 
Behold one who is ready to avenge 
Margaret Cooper's bold and deep betrayal. 
Ha I villain, do you start ! Do you shrink ? 
Do you remember the smooth-spoken knave 
Who, thus to doubly foul all moral law, 
In the staid garment of a preacher sought 
The home of innocence to wreck its peace. 
And its young inmate ruin. Once before 
We met in strife. Your hellish purpose then 
Had not been consummated. Would to heaven 
I had slain you on the spot. 'Tis not too late 
For vengeance. ( Wolfe recovers his self-possession.) 

Wolfe. The man is mad. I know not what he means 

Acton. Liar ! This will not serve you. You shall not 
'scape me. 
You can't deceive the eye of honesty. 
The trembling eddies of your secret soul, 



40 SYBIL. [actil 

If such dark conscience hath a Uving soul, 
Break on your face and accent, and aloud 
Proclaim the wretch I have pronounced you. 

Bar. This is very strange {aside), 

Wolfe. Sheer madness : 

Or 'tis a low, political design. 
To undermine by an unmanly fraud. 
The reputation you can't fairly shake : 
A poor, base trick — but let the sland'rer know 
The people understand these things too well. 

Acton. They shall know thee better. Alfred Stevens, 
The charge I utter you dare not deny. 

Wolfe. It is as false as hell I 

Acton. 'Tis true as heav'n ; 

And atonement craves — blood only will suffice. 

Lowe. Dear me! My dear friend, you are a young 
man ; 
Perchance you are mistaken : let me beg. 
Just for your own sake, you admit so much, — 
And shake hands on it. 

Acton. Sir ! 

Bar. I am son-y you persist in this unhappy business. 

Wolfe. Pshaw I The fellow is a madman or a fool ; 
Why trouble yourself further. Let him have 
Whate'er he wishes. 

Bar. My friend will withdraw. 

I shall wait on you immediately. 

(Bar. and Wolfe retire up.) 

Acton. I shall await you {going). 

Lowe. My dear friends, I regret — {to Acton.) 

Acton {going). No apology : 

You have, sir, unintentionally done 
The greatest favor you could have conferred 



SCENE m.] SYBIL. 41. 

Upon me — placing that bad man within 
My grasp. 

Lowe. I am a most unfortunate man, to be a cause of 
bloodshed. 

Acton. Fortunate rather, 

In being even the unknowing means 
Of avenging a woman's honor. [^Exit Acton. 

Old A. Let me request a pledge of secrecy, Mr. Lowe, 
as to what you have witnessed. 

Lowe. Certainly, my good sir, I have no desire to 
make myself responsible for any thing not belonging to 
me. I'm as secret as the grave. 

\_Exit Old A. and Mr. Lowe. 

Bar. I saw at once the fellow's tale was true. It was 
so like you. 

Wolfe. How if I deny it ? 

Bar. I wouldn't believe you. Where's the girl now ? 

Wolfe. That is a mystery I should not mind 
Paying to find out. A splendid creature I 

Bar. I reckon this fellow loved her. 

Wolfe. He did. 

A rude, half-witted sort of rustic he, 
At Eaglemont. Margaret despised him. » 

'Tis true, we almost fought for her before. 
Ashley, if I remember, was his name. 
Could I have dreamt, that in him I'd behold 
The now quite noted Acton. Barnabas, 
Look you ! We did not think the pistol might 
Aid us to level our young orator. 
Ha I ha I 

Bar. And will you do it ? 

Wolfe. There's no alternative. He will have none : 
And should he blab — 

4* 



42 SYBIL. [ACT II. 

Bar. Wing him ! that will be enough 

Wolfe. Curse him ! Who made him Margaret's cham- 
pion ? 
Were he her husband I might let him o£f 
With moderate chastisement, but he must pay 
The penalty of upstart insolence. 
I owe him an old grudge, too. He struck me 
On that day at Eaglemont. 

Bar. He did ! 

Wolfe. I feel it now. I will kill him. 
Ev'n if I had not ground most personal, 
Think what a stroke of policy it were 
To get him from the field. 

Bar. But what if he shoots ? 

Wolfe. Ah ! {thinking) secure my distance, a little 
adroitness will give me the advantage. 

Bar. And you will commission the bullet — 
You will kill him ? 

Wolfe. I must. [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Old Acton and William Acton. 

Old A. Do not be downcast. I know not how you 
could have acted otherwise ; and yet the affair is very 
shocking. 

Acton. It is ; but crime is shocking, and so are 
The thousand deeds that hourly rack man's life. 
Though hourly, death admonishes to good. 
Therefore the best philosophy is that 
Which girds us up with resolution 
To meet what seems as unavoidable, 
As though we were prepared for death. 

Old A. It may be death, my son. 

Acton. And if it were, 



SCENE m.] SYBIL. 43 

And brought a sigbt of vengeance with it, then 

I could feel happy. When I thhik of her — 

So beautiful, so proud, so bright, so dear 

Then to this heart — so dear to me, ev'n now 

I feel the worthlessness of ray life's laurels. ( Weeps.) 

Old A. Give way not thus, my son. Be a man. 

Acto7i. Am I not ? What have I not endured — what 
Have I not o'ercome. Will you not suffer 
A little moment's weakness, in exchange 
T'or those dread years' convulsive silence. 

Old A. It is worse than useless to brood, my son, 
Upon those days. 

Acton. What might they not have been. 

And now, I see her as an angel falPn ; 
And in this wretch the arch-fiend. Oh ! surely, 
To slay him cannot be an endless crime. 

E^iter Barnabas. 

Bar. Yery awkward business, Mr. Acton — no adjust- 
ing it now. May I have the pleasure of knowing your 
friend ? {Acton bows and hands him a card.) 

Bar. {Beads aloud.) Major Randolph. 

Old A. {coming forward takes the card from Bar.^s 
hand), /will act for you, William. 

Acton. You, sir? 

Bar. You, old gentleman ? 

Old A. Yes. Shall I be more reluctant than you to 
serve a friend. This, sir, is my adopted son. I love him 
as if he were my own. I love him better than life. 
Shall I leave him at the very time his life is perilled I 
No, sir. I am sorry for this affair, but will stand by 
him to the last. Let us see to the arrangements. 

Bar. You have seen service before, old gentleman. 



U SYBIL [acth. 

Old A. I have been young. 

Bar True blue, still. Though I regret equally witli 
yourself the sad duty, yet it gives me pleasure to deal 
with a gentleman of the right spirit. I trust your son 
is a shot. 

Old A. He has nerve and eye. 

Bar. Good things enough— very necessary — but a 
spice of practice does no harm. Now, Wolfe has a 
knack with a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if 
you be only a looker on. 

Old A. Let me stop you, sir. When I was a young 
man, sucli a remark would have been held an imperti- 
nent intimidation. 

Bar. Egad, you have me ! Are we agreed on the 
weapons — shall it be pistols ? 

Old A. Yes — at sunrise to-morrow. 

Bar. Good. 

Old A. Place— Red Grange. Distance — 

Bar. Twelve, I suppose — usual thing. 

Old A. {after a momentary pause). We will settle 
that on the ground. 

Bar. {Bites his lip.) Well, to-morrow morning — 
Red Grange — 

Old A. At sunrise. 

{Picture. Barnabas in the doorway.) 



SCENE I.] SYBIL. 45 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — Extenor of the Red Heifer Inn. 

Enter Mr. JjOwe from Inn. 

Lowe. Bad business, by Jove ! and may be a sad 
business, too. Acton is too wild and Wolfe too wary 
for good to come of it. So much for my leaving the 
town, and becoming political mediator in the heat of a 
raging election. But my conscience is clear as to my 
good intentions. How could I tell that Wolfe was such 
a scapegrace, and Acton such a perfect wildcat. I gave 
sound advice, too, but it was well I was not eaten up 
alive, I'll make back to town as expeditiously as possi- 
ble, and if any of these fire-eaters get me in their trail, 
under any pretence whatsoever, again, my name is not 
Lafayette Hancock Lowe. Something is done by this, 
for here comes Barnabas, and alone. What if Wolfe is 
killed ? 

Enter Barnabas. 

What news, Barnabas ? 

Bar. Good news. 

Lowe. Is Wolfe killed ? 

Bar. Would that be good news ? 

Loive. Well, there might be worse and there might 
be better. What is your good news ? 

Bar. Here it is — [TJiey stand axide. 

Enter Old Acton and Surgeon supporting William 
Acton, loho is pale and feeble. 

Acton. I am better — the cloud has gone from my 



46 SYBIL. [act lit. 

eyes. Forgive me, father, if in this I have gone against 
your will. I deeply deplore the pain I inflict on you, 
which I know is more acute than what I feel — forgive 
me. 

Old A. Bless yon, my son ; you have acted as became 
a man. ( With great affection.) Let us go in. 

Surgeon. The sooner he is completely at ease the bet- 
ter. The wound, though not mortal, is of a delicate and 
perhaps tedious nature. 

[Exit Old A., Acton, and Surgeon, into Inn, 

Lowe. Is that your good news ? 

Bar. It is better than I expected to have. But for 
the old fellow's pluck the young one would have been a 
dead man. 

Lowe. Ha ! How so ? 

Bar. Why, at ten paces Wolfe is sudden death ; but 
Old Acton had the choice of distance, and insisted on 
five paces, back to back, wheel and fire. 

Loive. Oh, the old blunderbuss — a most murderous 
affair. 

Bar. The suddenness of the proposition rather irri- 
tated Wolfe, who counted on ten ; but for that the 
news might have been much worse. 

Lowe. And Wolfe ? 

Bar. Had a very narrow escape — Acton's ball took 
the brim off his hat, just over the ear — he's gone across 
the country to Clifden's. 

Loioe. I'm off in the other direction — to town — after 
I congratulate my friends. 

Bar. If this affair is mentioned, just stop all conjec- 
tures on the matter, by alluding to it as a political dif- 
ference. 

Lowe. I assure you I will not make the slightest allu- 



SCENE II.] SYBIL. 41 . 

sion to it — none at all, whatever. I will not make my- 
self responsible to either party by telling any of their 
stories. Just think of my meeting Old Acton, at five 
paces, with double-shotted howitzers. No, no — good- 
day — adieu. 

[Exit into Inn. Exit Barnabas opposite side. 

Scene n. — Boom in Eustace GUfderCs Jioicse. 

Clifden, seated. 

Vlif. If she could marry, she would marry me : 
She will not — cannot — yet she would. 
She loves no other : I love her alone— 
And yet between us as between two banks 
Of some wide stream, the throbbing tide of hfe 
Rolls on, and fretfully on either shore 
Splashes fond discord, that in echoes mock 
The restless pleadings at the distant side. 
Must it be thus ? It cannot. I must solve 
The mystery in which she is enwrapped. 
To go, a prey to mad conjecture, were 
A living death, less torturous only 
Than this undying love. 
The clouds must part, and I the barrier see 
That dims my path, and keeps my sun from me. (Going.) 

Enter Rufus Wolfe, Maude, and Janette. 

Maude. Whither, brother? We have been seeking 

you. 
Clif. (disconcerted). Why, my friend, I did not dream 

you were 
Within a dozen miles of us. 

Wolfe. While you 



4S SYBIL. [act III. 

Were rusticating I have been at work ; 
And just rode over to confer upon 
Our prospects ; but, instead of finding you 
In mood for council, strong with healthy wit, 
Such as these glorious country scenes inspire, 
I meet you m.oody and weighed down as 'twere 
With premonitions of defeat. Cheer up, 
Clifden, the prospect brightens day by day. 

Cllf. (musingly). Indeed. 

Jan. {mimicking him). Indeed— why yes — and so 
it is. 
(To Wolfe.) Ah, Colonel, Love and Politics cannot dwell 
With harmony in that frail tenement. 
Love is sweet music, full of pettish airs, 
And thoughtful pain, and pleasures without thought ; 
While Politics is selfishness grown bold. 
And for its ends confusing all things else. 
Love is the heart, and Politics the head, 
And when there's strife between them, I well know 
Which side good Cousin Eustace takes. 

Maude. Ah, he has seen his goddess of the Wood — 
( To Clifden, j^layfully) — Have you not, brother ? 

Jan. To be sure he has ; 

Naught else could make him look so cheerful. 

Maude. Janette, you vex Eustace. 

Wolfe. I did not dream such sweet allurement 'twas 
That held our brilliant Clifden from the town. 
Who, may I ask, is she that hath this magic wrought ? 

Maude. Had you but seen her you would wonder not 
That he's possess'd with sudden passion for 
The air she breathes — indeed, she's beautiful I 

Ciif (abstractedly). Yery beautiful, Maude I 

Jan. Yes, a thunder-storm sort of beauty ; 



SCENE n.] SYBIL. 49 

A dark and dismal grandeur, that outflashes, 
Dazzling and terrifying one's poor heart. 

Clif. Ha ! neither over nor under drawn. 

Jan. To be sure not. Why, Colonel, when we first 
Were left together, I felt crumpled up 
With very fear. 

Maude. Now, cousin, 'tis unkind 

To harrow thus the mind of our dear Eustace. 
A different likeness of fair Sybil, I 
Can show. True, she is sad, and grave betimes, 
And wrapt in volumes that we can but name. 
But then she's kind, and from her gloomiest moods 
Wakes into gentle radiance, like the moon, 
Dispelling doubt that only came when we 
Were in the dark. 

Clif. {aside) Dear sister ! 

Wolfe. Can we not see the fair one ? You have roused 
My curiosity almost to envy. 
Is the fair soUtary's grot remote ? 

Jan. About a mile — a tassle as it were 
Ui)on the fringe of the forest. 

a'f. The lady 

Is engaged to-day, and — 

Wofe. So am I : 

Nor would I mar the sweet seclusion which 
Hath the chief eloquence when lovers meet. 
But, Clifden, I would speak to you of what 
Our merry-hearted friends take little heed. 

Ja7i. What's that ? 

Wolfe. Myself. 

Ja7i. Had you said one of us, we both might feel 
A cause of quarrel o'er the pleasant doubt : 
But as you made our heedlessness all one — 
5 



50 . SYBIL. [ACT III. 

Maude. Why, then, we'll take notes quietly to solve 
Whose careless tongue has most distracted 
His to such a speech. Ha ! ha I Come, cousin, 
Come. 

Wolfe. And may I hear the court's decision ? 

Jan. If we can decide. Ha I ha I 

\Exit Maude and Janette. 

Clif. You will excuse my bluntness, if I pray 
That you postpone — 

Wolfe. I see impatience writ 

On every movement, Clif den. I will not 
Waste a word ; but, as I leave within the hour. 
Would fain impress you with the duty which 
We owe — not to ourselves, for that were base 
In its selfish ends — but to our country. 
We much depend on you : your gift of speech. 
Your crowd-controlling phrases, ready wit ; 
Your mastery of passion, that great drug 
Which gives the secrets of the populace 
A flavor of the heart ; and makes each man 
Of all the wondering multitude believe 
The speaker spoke for him alone ; — with you 
To fling these quick'ning seeds broadcast into 
The ready hotbed of the people's hearts. 
Success is certain. Acton now is powerless. 

Clif. You've never heard him speak, or you would feel 
What baseless praises you have heaped on me. 

Wolfe. I have heard him once, and had Fate been 
kind 
As she has been, he never would be heard again. 

Clif. I do not understand you — 

Wolfe. Simply this : 

We met last night, and he» in violation 



BCENEII.] SYBIL. . 51 

Of even plebeian hospitality, 

Hung a base fabrication to my name : 

We met this morning, and I shot him. 

Glif. Unfortunate I 

Wolfe. Yes, that I did not kill him. 

Glif. Thank heaven, he is not dead ! — 

Wolfe. He is, however, beyond all usefulness ; 
And if you but leave your forest beauty — 
Pardon me — for a few days, the game is ours. 

Glif. As I promised, I shall do : but I grieve 
This early bloodshed on our side. 

Wolfe. Pshaw I 

All you lovers grow so tame in cooing 
Dehcate fantasies to maiden ears, 
That oft I wonder how the maiden bends 
To such unmanly chirpings. 

Glif {satirically). To-morrow 

I shall feel stronger of voice : strong enough. 
Mayhap, to drug the crowd, as you infer. 
To-day, you see I have a fantasy 
Most delicate for other ears. Adieu ! [Exit. 

Wolfe. Touchy and stubborn, as all lovers are ; 
Or, as they think they must be unto all 
Who will not mount with them the airy stilts 
On which they poise unsteady phrases 
Of devotion and what not ; all of which 
But tempt the exercise of woman's power : 
These women, who, like all great victors, live 
On the weak homage of their pris'ner's praise. 
Who can she be that holds his heart ? Methinks 
Its heat will burn her fingers and exhaust 
Itself. His nature runs into extremes. 
Frantic a day — a month melancholia — 



52 SYBIL. [ACTHi, 

An hour's passion, and a season's pain. 
His passion's up to-day, but, too ripe fruit, 
To-morrow's sun will melt it to the earth. [Exit. 

Scene III. — Aplain,hut neatly furnished room in Mrs. Hardy s 
cottage. Book-case, table, &c. 

Sybil seated, her head buried in her hands. 

Sybil (rising). Why do I weep ? Have I not said the 

word 
That should dry up these fountains of the eye 
Which are the tender emblems of affection I 
Tears ! What right have I with tears ? I whose lone 

hope 
Feeds on the sparks that iron destiny 
Strikes from the heart that's hardened into flhit. 

woman ! image of all feebleness 

Art thou. These garments are its badges. How long 

Must I still crave for retribution ? 

A day, an hour would have given to a man 

That prompt revenge which I have sought for years. 

(Muses.) Fool that I was to have denied his suit. 

Why did I not, at least, accept his hand — 

The hand of man ! He is an avenger 

Sent from heaven, and I have cast him off. 

What is love, life, or fear, or joy to me, 

That I should weigh distinctions ? 

What is his love to me, that I should fear 

To use it for my hate ? He still is mine 

If I but say it ; and not to say it. 

Is to fling away the weapon heaven sent. 

1 cannot doubt his love ! His love — ha ! ha ! ha I 
Man's love ! that brilliant shroud for infamy. 



SCENE m.] SYBIL. 53 

(Pauses.) Eustace Clifden, thou art mine : I take thy 

hand 
And place within it all my woes, my wrongs, 
My pent-up, silent-growing rage of years. 
I take thy hand as Judith took the sword 
That freed her from the libertine. 
Oh, how near losing, by a word, was I, 
The means of making vengeance perfect. 
Yet while I plan perchance he flies the place. 
And leaveth nothing but his heart behind. 
I claim his hand — his hand is all I need. 

{Bushes to the door, opens it quickly, andfaltei^s 
on the threshold. Her arm drops. She re- 
turns, wearing an exj^ression of remorse.) 
Oh Sybil, Sybil, thou'rt indeed debased. 
What ? Would'st thou send to shame, perdition, deatli. 
This youth, whose only crime is loving thee ; 
And who, if he had never seen thy face, 
Would mount to honor in the face of earth. 
What ? Would'st thou fling thme arms about his heart, 
And dupe his ardent nature to thy hate 
With wanton kisses, weighty in deceit ; 
Decoy his soul from out himself, and guage it 
To the dim path where moans thy wrathful fate ? 
Oh, no — no — no — I must not wrong him thus : 
So young, so generous, so full of truth. 
And lovingness, and manly speech. Away 
Ye fiends that wait on woman's doubts, to make 
Her less than woman. [Falls, weeping.) 

Enter Mrs. Hardy. Goes to Sybil and raises her. 

3Irs. Har. Why, daughter, will you drive yourself into 
These paroxysms. Why waste your strength upon 
5* 



54 SYBIL. [ACTiir. 

The arid past, when it is needed for 
The present and the future. 

Sybil. The present ? 

I have no present ; and with such a past, 
Can have no future. 

Mrs. Har. Oh, must we ne'er, 

Ne'er rid us of that past. Must you still cry — 
Shame, shame, aloud, at thy poor self, now that 
You have not the loud world to do it ? Shame I 
The past ! Have you not expiated it ? 
Have you not made me suffer for it ? Oh, 
There are other things to live for now. 

Stjhil. True, 

There are ; and if there were not, then, indeed, 
Should I be desperate. 

Mrs. Har. You have, my child. 

Much, I hope, to live for yet ; new life of joy : 
With our long solitude and altered name 
The girl of Eaglemont's forgotten quite. 
Ay, you will yet as good a husband have 
As any girl in the land. 

Sybil Oh, mother. 

Mother ! for the sake of heaven, none of this. 

Mrs. Har. Why not ? Should brain and beauty, such 
as yours. 
Be buried here for ever ? 

Sybil. Peace, mother I 

Peace — you will drive me mad. 

Mrs. Har. Well, daughter, well, 

I know not how to please you, but I'm sure 
I only want to cheer and lift your heart ; 
Your hopes are not so bad as you would think — 
(Sybil waves her hand impatiently.) 



3CENEni.] SYBIL. 55 

No, indeed, not near so bad. Is there not 

Young Clifden fairly dying for your love ? 

Why will you not wed him ? A better mate 

No woman need desire — handsome, young, and good. 

Sybil. Mother, you have deeply suffer' d for your child — 
Torn from the homestead that was sacred made 
By my dear father's love — torn from the scenes 
Of your bright wedded days — scenes that hold thouglits 
Which are the dearest solace of old age. 
For in such scenes we live our love anew. 
Torn you have been from those tried hearts and eyes 
That weave a glory round deserved success ; 
You have forsaken every thing to prop 
The tottering youth of your once haughty child. 
These wrongs, which have upon your waning years, 
In their chill weight anticipated age, 
Not less than those I've suffer'd, make me quake 
To hear you talk as you have done. Marry ? 
Clifden ? 

Mrs. Har. Yes, daughter : think not of my wrongs • 
I cannot long be with you on the earth, 
And ere I go 'twould glad my heart to see 
You wed to one who in his noble love 
Would crown with joy the trials you've endur'd. 

Sybil. In ev'ry quality of sense and heart 
Is Clifden nobly gifted ; but could I 
So sacrilegious be as link his fate 
And spotless gifts with my unsettled soul ! 

Mrs. Har. If you were married unto such a man, 
Your life would have a purpose in his life. 
Domestic duties would exalt your mind 
Above the wilful dreams of horror, which 
You cherish now. Life would have purpose then. 



50 SYBIL. [Acxnr 

Sybil. And lias it not a purpose now ! A great, 
A holy, soul-absorbing- purpose. 

Mrs. Har. Daughter, do not look so wild {pnU her 
arm around her). 

Sybil. Purpose — 

Have I not that oath to fulfil — 

i//-.s. Har. Margaret — 

Oh Sybil, dear, — you fright me with these oaths. 
What's done cannot be helped. You frighten me. 
Be calm — there's some one at the wicket. See, 
Clifden's coming up the path. 

Sybil. I cannot 

Meet him. {Going.) 

Mrs. Har. For my sake I 

Sybil. Mother, mother — place 

On my affection some more worthy test — 
I cannot, cannot marry. 

Enter Clifden. 

Mrs. Har. Good day, Mr. Clifden. 

GUf. Ladies, good day : 

Pardon, I pray, this lack of ceremony. 
Finding the wicket open, I thus far 
Intruded, on a neighbor's privilege, 
As to enter — 

Mrs. Har, Your bright face brings its welcome, 
The sunshine comes unbidden in, and why 
Should you not — 

Glif. Madam, you are kind, but while 

Your daughter's here, there is, Pd say, no need 
Of other light. 

Sybil. Ah, Clifden, you are more 

Polite than usual 



SCENE m.] SYBIL f^i 

Clif. A just rebuke 

For previous want of manners. 

3Irs. Ear. Sybil is not quite well ; you must not pit 
your ready wit against her. Be seated, Mr. Clifden ; I 
will leave you to enliven her, if you are not otherwise 
engaged {Clifden hows), while I make my domestic 
rounds. (Sybil exhibits uneasiness and anger at her 
mother^s leaving.) [Exit Mrs. Hardy. 

Clif. (approaching). Miss Hardy — 

Sybil [rising, and raising her hands as if to com- 
mand silence). Chfden, I supplicate you — 
Speak not I For your own sake and mine do not. 

Clif But— 

Sybil (bitterly). Why will you, sir, pursue me thus? 

Clif No rest I'll find 'till I the barrier know, 
That either in thy self-denying brain, 
Or, in the actual fact, divides us. 
I love you deeply, passionately I 
As I ne'er fancied man could mortal love. 
This passion rends my frame, distracts my mind. 
And doubtful makes the tenure e'en of life. 
I have seen you only to worship you. 
Lost to me, I lose my divinities. 
My faith. 

Sybil. Oh, Clifden, spare me, and preserve yourself i 
You woo destruction. 

Clif. I can see there is 

A deepening mystery about you. 

Sybil. Ay, the mystery of a passion which 
Controls all others. 

Clif Then but a pretext 

Was your wide, bhghting, though deceiving scorn, 
For th' all-controlling passion — Love. 



58 SYBIL. [ACT III. 

Sybil. A pretext ? Would it were. Love makes no 
part 
Of my existence, which now feeds alone 
On the heart-hard'ning rival passion — Hate I 

Clif. Foiehate? 

Sybil, Ay, sir. Hate is my passion, 

And dwells not here alone, since it commands 
A slave of its own likeness — 

Clif. And that ? 

Sybil. Is Revenge. 
Ask thyself, then, with these within my breast, 
Whether there can be room for aught else there. 

Clif. {pacing to and fro, muttering). Revenge, Sybil, 
revenge {ntops) I Something of this 
I understand {cogitates). Your culture, loveliness, 
This solitude. These do not balance well. 
{To her.) Some ruthless knave, perchance, in usury 

steeped. 
Taking advantage of thy mother's weeds. 
Thy orphanage, has levelPd all your gods. 
Has torn the splendor from your household heav'n, 
And revels in the starry wealth once yours* 
Mayhap the plunderer would barter it 
For that bright beauty he could not enslave. 
Your dignity and learning are cramp' d here, 
They are not natural to this house or sphere. 
You have an enemy— Sybil, I will be 
Your greedy champion 'gainst the world* Give me 
Your hate, and I will crush what bred it. 

Sybil {with eager for getfuhiess). Will you indeed do 
this ! But what do I say. 
No, no — you cannot, must not avenge me. 
No, no. 



ecENEHiJ SYBIL. 59 

Glif. I will — I can. Your enemy shall be mine — 
I will pursue him to the ends of earth. 

Sybil (aside). Sustain me, heaven. (To G.) No, no — 
you shall not — 
I will not wrong your generosity, 
Your daring love, by yielding to your pray'r. 
Deeply, sincerely, do I feel for thee — 
But {aside) — Oh, my brain — my heart will burst {weeps 
aside). 

Glif. Tears ! 

The words that vainly struggle to the tongue, 
Break from the eye in liquid eloquence. 
Sybil, I must and shall be your life's shield. 
My own heart, in its lack of comfort, prompts 
What's due to one, like thine, in agony. 
I cannot leave you here alone, a prey 
To this revenge, which worketh 'gainst thyself 
More than its object, whatsoe'er it be. 

Sybil, You rush upon a fate I'd give my life 
To save you from. 

Glif. Then why not link our lives 

Upon it I It is all I crave, 

Sybil. Heaven is witness how I've striven for you, 
And against myself. You seek to fathom 
The thoughts that hang Uke night about my heart. 
You love me, Chfden I I believe you. 
You love me, but the secret of my soul 
Will be the death-blow to that love. 

Glif. Speak, dearest, speak I Your anxious fears but 
prove 
The tender majesty of woman's soul. 
Speak I I am your bondman. 

Sybil. But the world's mock — 



60 SYBIL. [act. Ill 

To see it, in the inner vision, point 
Its skinny finger at my tale of woe. 

Glif. Declare my service. Your possession 
Will give me deeper purpose on the earth. 
You have been wronged, I care not to know more. 
My eyes but see you to adore, my ears 
But hear your words of virgin purity ; 
And in this faith I claim thy hand, thy cause, 
Thy wrongs, thy vengeance. Make them mine alone, 
That I a bright memorial may raise 
Of virtuous revenge, which in the minds 
Of men will live when we are in the dust. 

Sybil (aside). How I could love this man. [Aloud) 1 
beg thee — go. 
The fountains of my life are welling up — 
My heart, Kke some weak swimmer, vainly breasts 
The tide — it struggles, but it will not save 
Itself to risk thy heart a sacrifice. 

Clif. Oh, noblest hearted — let my strength bear thee. 
Let our young hearts rest on the other's strength. 
And like the 'butments of a bridge, bear up 
The single arch of our existence. 

Sybil {abstractedly). What fate is driving me to this 
Can it be 
My mind at last has fallen from its throne ! 
Do I dream ? Oh, Clifden, wilt thou not go — 

Glif. And leave thee victim to thy fantasies, 
Or the grim echoes solitude evokes 
From old misfortune's crabbed voice ? 

Sybil (looking imploringly to heaven). Give aid, that 
I may drive my heart away ; 
For sure no love of man — the man of all I love — 
Can stand the ordeal I conjure up. 



SCENE III] SYBIL. 61 

{To Clifden.) The hand you woo was by another won — 

Peace — you shall know all. 'Twas in life's early spring. 

He found me sparkling in my native hills, 

As pure, if wayward, as the young cascades, 

That pant to spring out from the yawning glooms. 

He found me proudly innocent, and vain 

Of gh'lish triumphs, that not envy's tongue 

Could lessen in our happy village. 

He reached above my rustic haughtiness 

With all the city's legacy of ease, 

With bright audacity and subtle force, 

With ardor passionately robed in words 

Stolen from The Book of Everlasting Love ; 

And thus, as 'twere with wizard energy, 

My pride, my vanities, my hopes, my life 

Of life, under the magic spell-word — marriage — 

Were surrounded ; and — 

Clif. You loved ! — ay, love him yet. 

(Sybil goes to the book'Case and returns with a pistol.) 

Sybil. Daily, for five long years, I've practised with 
This instrument of death. Here, in these woods, 
I've daily held a calm devotion, where 
Hate is the deity and vengeance dark 
The officiating votaress. Love yet ! — ha ! 
For years I've toiled with this delusive dream — 
Retribution ! But what can woman do — 
Where seek — how find her victim ? Ah, think you, 
Eustace Clifden, could I have met my foe 
I would divide the glory of this work 
Of gnawing vengeance ! — No I this eye and hand 
Are strangers to a woman's fears. 

Clif. ( Taking hold of the hand with pistol). Give me 
the hand — 

6 



(S2 SYBIL. [ACT 111. 

Sybil. Stay — be warned — 

Never was man to such conditions brought, 
As you to those by which you claim my love. 

Clif. Hear me, thou just, impartial heaven I 
To stand between this woman and her wrongs — 
To take her heart and shrive it of its hate — 
To make her woes my own — 

Sybil. Do not mock me. 

The barrier cannot, must not be overstepped. 

Clif* I swear by this fair hand — 

Sybil. Swear not, and be free : 

The hand you clasp is a dishonored hand ! 

Clif den {recoils and drops her hand). 

Sybil {with calm passion). Who takes my hand must 
take the weapon from it. 
My husband must avenge his wife^s dishonor. 

Clif. (clasping her hand). Thy hand, thy hate is mhie. 

Sybil. The oath I 

Clif. I swear I 

{Sybil, overcome, hysterically falls into Glifden^s 
arms.) 



SCENE I.] SYBIL 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Boom in CUfden's House. 
Eustace Clifden. Rufus Wolfe. Barnabas. 

Wolfe. Truly, Clifden, I congratulate you. 
Your wife's a noble woman : and her mind 
As richly gifted as her beauty's rare. 

Glif. I'm proud to think my best friends all agree, 
I'm right in love as sound in politics. 

Wolfe. Fortunate fellow ! I should say no man 
Was ever more so. But your happiness 
Will quickly end the reign of bachelors — ■ 
They'll want to rival your good fortune. 
Shall we not give him a certificate. 
On the unusual wisdom of his choice, 
Making him free of all Club penalties 
Made against those who wed without its leave ? 

Bar. I suppose so, if you say it. I judge 
Only of Mistress Clifden's lovely mien, 
For you her conversation all engross'd. 
I'll certify she's noble to the eye, 
And take your measure of her mental worth. 

Wolfe, You will be safe in doing so. 

Clif. My friends, she's noble and as eloquent 
Ev'n as she looks. Could I say more — 

Wolfe. Or less ! 

Glif. But come, had we not best be on the road. 

Wolfe. I fear my horse will not carry me. The brute 
is snagged, or has a nail in his foot ; the quick is touch- 
ed ; and indeed, but for the brute's sake, I'm not sorry. 



64 SYBIL. [ACT IT, 

We roused too late last night, and I have — a slight 
headache. I'll nurse myself this morning. 

Glif. Shall we break up our excursion, Barnabas ? 

Bar. No, by Jove ! I need fresh air after exhausting 
all my breath in taverns for the public good. 

Clif. Come, then : make yourself at home {to Wolfe)j 
you will find 
Some books about the house. 

Wolfe. Thanks, my dear boy I — I feel myself at home. 
{Detains Barnabas.) 

Glif. {to Bar.). I shall await you at the stables. [Exit. 

Bar. What's the matter ? 

Wolfe. The strangest in the world. 
Would you believe it, that girl, about whom 
I fought with Acton, and young Clifden's wife. 
Are one and the same person I 

Bar. {gives a long whistle). The devil they are ! 

Wolfe. True I I have spoken with her as Margaret : 
The recognition is complete. 

Bar. Heavens I 

How awkward. 

Wolfe. Awkward ! On the contrary, 

This meeting I regard as fortunate. 
Most fortunate : I ne'er was satisfied 
With having lost her as I did ; and now 
To find her, is like finding a rich prize 
I thought forever lost. 

Bar. Do you not fear — 

Might she not hint it to her husband ? 

Wolfe. She's not the fool you show yourself to be. 
What wife would do it ? or what woman ? No — 
She kept her secret when she married him, 
And will not blab it now. 



SCENE!.] SYBIL. 65 

Bar. But the affair 

With Acton has from Clifden's ears been kept, 
Only because he had no ear for aught 
Save love. He soon must hear of it. 

Wolfe. No mischief can it work. Did you not hear 
Me ask him on our last night's rouse the name — 
The maiden name of Mistress Clifden. Ha ! 
Forsooth the maiden name — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Bar. Yes ; her name, he said, was Hardy. 

Wolfe. Sybil Hardy— /iis Sybil ! Ha ! ha ! ha I 

Bar. Do not laugh so loud — 

Wofe. You are as timid 

As a hare in December. Don't you see 
She has imposed upon him a false name. 
What matters it to him, then, should he hear 
Of Margaret Cooper and myself from this 
Till doomsday. Clifden's safe in ignorance, - 
As in its knowledge are his wife and I. 
At the same time, however, 'twill seem well 
You give him true account of Acton's brawl — 
All politics, all politics — you know : 
High words, and, to sum up the argument. 
When reason failed and passion was supreme, 
Exchange of shots, and so forth — do you see? 

Bar. That may be very well — but, Jupiter I 
I'd rather we were safely from this house. 
Yes, yes — I will be off to-morrow. 

Wolfe. Then, by Yenus ! you will start alone 
Having beheld her, I'm convulsed with joy I 
I see her now I 

Those wild, bright, almost fierce, dilating eyes ; 
Those lips, that brow, that full and heaving breast — 

Bar. Hush, you are mad. You say you spoke with her ; 
6* 



66 SYBIL. [act IV. 

And did she calmly listen, nor abuse 
Your wild audacity. 

Wolfe. Pah ! Simpleton, 

You ne'er could understand her. You must not 
Think of this glorious creature as you would 
Of ordinary and weak-souPd women. 
Abuse ? She is too proudly built for that — 
She threatened me. Ha ! ha I ha I 

Bar. And you— 

Wolfe. I laughed, of course ; and but your cursed return 
With her boy-husband baulked me, should have met, 
And silenced her brave threats with kisses. 

Ba7\ You'll have your throat cut one day or other 
By some husband. 

Wolfe. Ah ! Barnabas, you know 

Little of husbands as you do of wives. 
But in her love I've good security ; 
Better even than in your stupidity. 

Ba7\ Take care ! 

Wolfe. She loves me — 

Bar. The deuce she does ! 

You're a conceited fellow. 

Wolfe. I know she does. 

The strongest passion is youth's mem'ried love : 
Its freshness, bloom, and fragrance, never fades. 
Think you a woman like her can forget 
The hps that first within her bosom blew 
The spark of love into a passionate flame ? 

Bar. Under the circumstances, she'd be less 
Than woman if she could forget you ; but 
She seems so proud and cold : at times almost 
So fiendish, I should not care to jog 
Her memory about such days. 



SCENE I.] SYBIL. 67 

Wolfe. Masks, glorious masks — indignant virtue, ha I 
Now, in the morning neither of us leave. 
Fortune favors me — you'll not be less kind. 
You to my aid must come, good Barnabas. 

Bar, What ? to carry off our hostess I May I be — 

Wolfe. Don't — indeed, you will. 

Bar, To have that fellow, 

Who is a perfect Mohawk when aroused — 
What ? Clifden in my war-path — on my trail — 
To slit my carotid — not I — never. 

Wolfe. I say there is no cause of fear to you : 
Keep out of sight, by keeping him away. 
You wish to ramble, I do not. He knows 
I've no great relish for horse-exercise. 
For you he'll start an elk-hunt, any thing : 
To go, I naturally will decline ; 
And if you both could only break your necks, 
It would be all the better. She won't miss 
Either of you, I'll wager on't. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
But, seriously, you're not in danger's way. 
I'm the offender — if offence there be ; 
And surely, you'll oblige a friend. 

Bar, I don't 

Half like such test of friendship. 

Wolfe. Paltry test- 

There was a time you would not e'en have dared 
To refuse me. 

Bar. Ahem — Clifden awaits me (going). 

Wolfe. Remember, while you're in his company 
Keep out of mine and Margaret's. 
Pleasant sport to you. Adieu I 

[Exit at opposite sides. 



68 SYBIL. [ACTiA'. 

Scene II. — Another room in Clifden's house. 
Sybil Hardy. Maude. Janette. 

Maude. Why sad, sister Sybil ? But three days ago 
and you were so bright and lively, that even Cousin 
Janette was dull in comparison. 

Jan. Heigho I Eustace is away, and young wives are 
jealous of the magnets that draw husbands from their 
eyes ; but, pet, he will be back soon. He is tearing 
over the hills, thinking only of his enjoyment. Ha ! ha I 
Heigho ! / never will get married if I am to feel as 
you do. 

Sybil. You never will feel as I do. 

Jan. What — have you a monopoly of affection ? 

Maude. Do not mind the teaze. Cousin can return to 
mother, and I will stay with you. 

Sybil. Dear Maude, I will be well presently. I am 
so unused to society — I live and love so much in soli- 
tude — my household is so simple, that the very attention 
due to our guests has excited me more than one might 
dream of. 

Jan. Ah, ha I Maude. Our lovers love to be alone. 
You could not comfort her more than by leaving. 

Maude. But Eustace's sister — 

Jan. Is a poor apology for Eustace himself. Come, 
child, come. (To Sybil.) Am I not, Sybil, the best 
comforter. {Sybil smiles.) Ah, I knew it. See that tell- 
tale smile. Come, Maude. 

Maude. I have a great mind to stay. But — 

Jan. Come, coz, come. {Maude going, but returns 
and kisses Sybil.) [Exit Maude and Jan. 

Sybil (after a pause) . Oh, what a fate this thirsting 
for revenue 



SCENE II.] SYBIL. G9 

Has brought upon us, Eustace. Bitterly 

I feel my utter degradation. 

But I was mad. When I swore thee, Clifden, 

To slay this wretch, the woman I was not 

Tliat now I am. I did not know how much 

I loved thee ; or what love thy love begot. 

The secret I must keep— this bloodshed stop : 

My husband's life is dearer than revenge. 

Oh, had the years since last I saw this fiend 

Been filled with prayers of penitence, not pride ; 

Prayers for grace from heav'n, not for hate on earth, 

Thy hand {kneels), great Father, were less heavy now. 

Spare me, spare me I Let the trial be light. 

Oh, grant thy mercy on my husband's head. 

And give me strength, composure, and resolve. 

To meet this issue, as it must be met, 

Once and forever. {Starts to her feet as she hears a noise.) 

Enter Rufus Wolfe. 

Wolfe {approaching ivith eagerness). Oh, for this 
meeting how I've wept and pray'd — 
With one so loved, so dearly loved — so long 
And bitterly lamented. Margaret — 

Sybil. Sir, you see the wife of Eustace Clifden. 

Wolfe. It is my sad misfortune that you are 
His wife, or wife of any heart but mine. 
Turn not away — you think I have wrong'd you. 

Sybil. Think, sir, think — it matters Httle unto you 
What I may think. Remember you're a guest 
Beneath my husband's roof. Remember, too, 
Thy life is forfeit, as thy love was sworn 
To me and mine ; — that in his ignorance 



70 SYBIL. [ACTi\. 

Of your black crime, your safety only lies. 
One word from me — 

Wolfe. You will not speak that word. 

Margaret — 

Sybil {with satiric scorn). Will I not I 

Wolfe. For the sake of the dear past you will not. 

Sybil. The past 1 Ah, were the past alone my guide, 
I should not for my vengeance think of him. 
An injured woman has a twofold strength. 
Proud in the memory that she once was pure. 
She holds the woman's nature still ; besides 
The fallen angel that informs her hate, 
A never absent Lucifer : both strong 
To nerve the arm and unsex the brain, 
If the dread past alone did beckon me. 

Wolfe. If you the cruel necessity but knew 
That kept me from you. 

Sybil. Oh, false, false — and not more false than foolish. 
I heard all — I know all. I know that I 
The credulous victim of your subtle arts 
Have been ; and you, successful coward, boasted 
Over the conquest of a trustful girl. 

Wolfe. The villain lied who told you this. 

Sybil. Then, your own acts that lying villain prove. 
If you were true, you had no need to shroud 
Your purposes within a name as false. 
AVhy fly ? Why not have kept the word to which 
I fell a sacrifice ? Why for long years 
Leave me the miserable mock of those 
Who once were even proud of my contempt — 
Living, desperately weak, insanely sane, 
Verging on madness, that from day to day 
Kept in my hand an instant means of death, 



SCENE II.] SYBIL, 71 

Which I did only not use on myself, 

In the wild hope that I should meet with you. 

Wolfe. I am here now. If needful be my death 
To your sweet peace, command it, in love's name. 

Sybil. A month ago I needed no such offer — 
That time has changed me. Nature has succumbed 
To the great bliss of being truly loved. 
Go — live ! Let not the morrow find you here : 
Forget that you have ever known me ; 
Forget, if possible, you Clifden know, 
For whose dear sake, alone, I spare you. Go ! (Moves.) 

Wolfe. For his sake, Margaret (smiling) — his sake 1 
No, no (offers to take her hand) — 
It is impossible this young man could 
Fill up the radiant hopes of such a soul. 
Or any thing to such a woman be, 
As you, who must remember that first love — 

Sybil. Man or devil, remind me not of crime 
That still demands my sworn vengeance. 
Hark ye, Alfred Stevens (almost in a whisper)^ you are 

not wise — 
You are in the very den of danger, 
I tell thee, Stevens, that I spare your fife. 
Though the weapon is shotted ; though the knife 
Is whetted. I spare you, even though I feel 
The thirst to slay you rising in my soul, 
On one condition — that you do depart. 
Wake not my slumbering fury. Linger 
Longer, and you may ne'er depart again. 

Wolfe. Why, this is madness. 

Sybil. I am mad I 

And otherwise than mad I cannot be 
While you are here. 



72 SYBIL. [act IT. 

Wolfe. I cannot think you hate me. 

Sybil. Can I thmk ijou ever loved me ? No, no. 
Do not deceive yourself (Wolfe looks fawninghj at 

Sybil) ; provoke me not 
With your defiling glances, and still less 
With your dishonest tongue. Be warned in time ; 
Another day, and the command I hold 
Upon myself, may die through sheer excess 
Of agony that keeps it strong to-day. 
To destroy you would gratify the hate 
I've lived for, but 'twould also overthrow 
The peace of him I prize beyond my life. 
I strive not 'gainst my vows, in your behalf ; 
Not e'en in my own behalf the effort springs : 
It is for him, who gave me love, new life, 
A holy purpose with that name of names — 
That name which, truly worn, is the richest gem 
All earth can place on woman — name of wife. 
It is for him alone, from out whose brain 
I have regrown — for my husband, Clifdeu, 
That I avert my vision from the past. 
Beware — he comes ! [Sybil takes a seat at table. Wolfe, 
snatching a bookj reclines in an arm-chair, ajMrt 
from her.) 
Wolfe (rather loudly). My dear madam, you are right ; 
I wonder not you have a preference 
For country life : such scenery around. 
Such air, the body to invigorate, 
Such books to bring the mind perennial strength ; 
And, above all, with a companion such 
As Chfden, my young, noble friend. Indeed, 
I know not which to most congratulate, 
You each have made such admirable choice. 



SCENE Ti.] SYBIL. 7a 

Suhil (aside). Yillaiii ! 

Enter Clifden. 

Wolfe. I perceive, madam, by these underscorings, you 
are an appreciative student of the great moralist and 
man. Ah ! Clifden, so soon returned, or is it that the 
time sped quicker than I thought ? 

Glif. Your doubt informs me you were not dull hi 
my absence. 

Wolfe. Oh, not at all, thanks to Mrs. Clifden. I 
took your advice, my dear boy, and made myself quite 
at home. Did I not, my dear madam ? The sight of 
these books reminded me of home. We have discussed 
the poets and all kinds of poetry, from the Paradise 
Lost to the Loves of the Angels. [Sybil eorpr esses sur- 
prise, disgust, and scorn, during this speech.) 

CI if. And which have you decided for ? 

Wolfe. Well, strange to say, Mrs. Clifden thinks 
Paradise Regained preferable to either, which, you are 
aware, is opposed to all critical opinion, 

Sybil (aside). Audacious villain ! 

Clif (eviderdly uneasy). Well, you know ladies will 
differ with critics ; but you must have talked faster than 
we galloped, to get over so much ground in the space of 
time. 

Wolfe. Then I was right — you hurried back. Ha ! 
you rogue, I thought you would not extend your excur- 
sion. Ha ! ha ! I was a young married man once myself. 

Sybil (to Clif), You are with us for the evening, 
dear? 

Clif. IS'ot yet, Sybil. Our friend Barnabas is dull to- 
day, and dumb. I strove in vain to rouse him. Two 
miles I jogged beside him for a word — 

7 



74 SYBIL. [ACT IV 

Wolfe. The timid blockhead (aside). 

Glif. And then bethought me I'd return, run over to 
Cottageville, bring back Maude and Janette, and thus do 
all our country life affords to make our city fricnas in 
pleasant humor. Here comes dull Barnabas — 

Elder Barxabas. 

Bar. At your service. 

Sybil, I'll strive and wear his dullness off till you re- 
turn. 

Clif. That were a difficult task, Sybil, 

Wolfe. Not so to an enchantress — see her eflect on 
me. You are not jealous, Olifden ? 

Sybil, Clifden has no need to be. 

Glif. Ha ! ha I Colonel, you had best take care how 
you break the wand of your enchantress. Come, Bar- 
nabas. 

Sybil. Perhaps,. Eustace, Mr. Barnabas would rather 
keep us company — he is tired ; are you not {to Bar.) 't 
You have failed to cheer him (to Glif.) — let us try. 
(Wolfe motions to Barnabas, unobserved.) 

Bar. I fear, madam, I could ill sustain the gallant 
Colonel's banter. 

Wolfe. Well, with permission of good madam, I will 
accompany Clifden (moving), and you shall discuss the 
poets. 

Glif Ah, ha 1 If so, instead of one dull person now, 
we'd have two on our return. No, Barnabas shall come 
with me (exit Sybil) ; Maude and our witty Janette will 
teaze him into gay humor on the way back, and then 
we'll all be ready for a pleasant evening. Is not that 
best, Sybil (looks round) ? 

Wolfe. Your wife has an excellently organized mind. 



SCENE n.J SYBIL. 75 

very fine — original and well informed, and gentle too, but 
a little melancholy, I should say — I will strive to enter- 
tain her in your absence. 

Glif. Do, Colonel, do. Nothing so pleases her as tlie 
dear old books, and talks about them. 

Wolfe. Had I your eloquence — 

Clif. You are determined to be complimentary. (To 
Bar'.) I will wait on you in a moment. [Eojit. 

Wolfe. How near ruining all my hopes you were, by 
your infernal dullness. 

Bar. I tell you, Wolfe, this recklessness won't do. It 
is tempting fortune too far. Besides, you owe your 
election chiefly to Clifden. If he was idle before he 
married, he certainly exerted himself greatly in your 
cause since. 

Wolfe. How can I repay him better than by confer- 
ring all my love upon his wife. I'll get him a good 
office, too, in the State. You are a dolt. Hear me — 
take care that you do not betray me by your fears. 
Could you not get sick at the cottage, and delay, or 
maybe stay all night, and need his assistance, eh ? Do 
any thing — but keep him out of my way. 

Re-enter Clifden. 

Clif. Come, Barnabas. 

Wolfe. He feels already much better at the prospect 
of flirting with the girls. He is a great rogue, this Bar- 
nabas. 

CUf. I must see that he does not steal both their 
hearts at once. [Exit Clif. and Bar. 

Wolfe {seating himself). The game goes well. A 
woman fallen once 
Has no retreat. She was mine. She must be mine : 



liy SYBIL. [ACT IV. 

A breath can drive her from her husband's arms. 
Little he recks how she once worshipped me — 
More wildly e'en than he now worships her. 
Little he dreams the secrets that oppress 
The pillow next his own. Little he knows 
The bosom that he presses, such adepts 
In smiles and strategy these women are. 
She comes — with passion for her fear's defence, 
But when threats end beseechings will commence. 
She's here (rises to receive her). 

Enter Sybil. 

Sybil (repulsing him). Colonel Wolfe, I come to 
warn you once more } 
Again to implore you, leave this dwelling. 
You are trifling with your fate I 

Wolfe. Not trifling : 

Say it not, my Margaret, you are my fate ; 
But after such a painful separation 
Your greeting's cruel and unnatural. 

Sybil. I am your fate. That is the only truth 
You utter. 

Wolfe. Why should recrimination 
Coldly invade the precious present. 
For the past let my unceasing love atone. 
If you e'er loved me as you said you did, 
With all the burning fervor of your soul, 
Hear me — 

Sybil. I have no wish to let you add 
A second perjury to the first. 

Wolfe. It is not perjury : you must hear me 
In justification. 

Sybil. Justify yourself to heaven, not to me : 



8CE^•EIl.] SYBIL. tT 

I will not hear you doubly curse your soul. 

If you have yet a spark of manhood left^ 

The boon I ask has claims upon you now. 

Having trampled me to the dust in shame, 

Robbed my bright youth of pride and blissful peace. 

Why should you persecute the homely joys 

My broken life requires ? 

Wolfe. Persecution ? 

It is love ! You were my first love ; you shall be 
My last. We were destined for each other. 

Sybil. Peace I I'm no longer blind and vain as when 
My ears were flattered to dishonor. 

Wolfe, Oh that the tongue, whose power you still ad- 
mit, 
Could plead its truth to that same ear that once 
Delighted in its love. If you have grown 
Insensible to admiration, 
Your nature ne'er can grow insensible 
To love. 

Sybil. Love — your love I 

Wolfe. Yes, Margaret, my love. It conjures up 
Moments that were too precious to forget. 
Where'er I've been, the memory of that time 
Was with me. 'Tis impossible that you, 
So full of wealthy nature, and who shared 
With me your bosom's first emotions. 
Can be so cold. Your tongue's hot passion proves 
The struggle in your heart for its old love — 
The sweeping down the trammels of the new. 
Do I not know the duties, my beloved. 
This new-linked chain imposes ? Have no fear 
My sudden joy grim prudence will offend. 
No, dearest, no, that self-same prudence will 
7* 



I 



78 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 

Weave round our lovingness a secret bliss, 
Which made the gods of old immortal. Ay, 
The kiss that is not trammelled by men's laws 
Hath a wild power no legal banns can grant. 
Let us, dear Margaret, as when first we loved. 
Feed on the stolen rapture of two hearts (attempts to 
embrace /ier — she repulses him). 

Sybil. I have heard you, hellish fiend, to the close : 
Oh, would to heaven you had declared yourself 
Five years ago as now. Could I have seen, 
As now I see, the cloven foot, the tongue 
Of serpent, I had been as pure as you 
Were base ; nor would my palsied ear confront 
These words accursed — this blasphemy 'gainst God 
And man. 

Wolfe. Margaret — 

Sybil. Sir, I have heard you patiently. Once 

more — 
I hate you with the bitterest loathing ; 
With scorn, behold you as the foulest fruit 
Hell could bear in black contrast to heaven ; 
Whose depth of blackness thwarts the daring scope 
Of your atrocious schemes ; abhor you 
As a coward below contempt — traitor 
To your own sex, and infidel to mine. 
Judge, then, the prospect you pursue. 

Wolfe. Beware I Margaret, beware, lest you rouse 
The unearthly terror that you picture. 
'Tis you that trifle with your fate. Despise 
My love — you cannot fly my power. 

Sybil. Your power ? Do I rightly hear — Power ? 

Wolfe. Ay, my power : but I entreat you, believe me 
your friend. 



SCENE II.] SYBIL. 19 

Sybil. You are my enemy — my first, my worst ; 
Heaven forbid that I could think you friend again. 

Wolfe. Yet still I am. I love you better far 
Than I have ever loved a woman. 

Sybil. You have a wife, Rufus Wolfe ? 

Wolfe. Yes ; but— 

Sybil. And children ? 

Wolfe. Well— 

Sybil. For their sakes if not for mine — for her sake, 
Whose dreams are bless'd because she b'lieves you true ; 
For the pure babes, who're fed to health or woe 
By her sweet peace of mind they mother call : 
For their sakes, I implore you to forbear. 

[Wolfe seizes Sybil ; she e sea 'pes, and eatchiny up a 

pistol from the bookcase^ turns qnickly round and 

presents it at him.ja.st as he reaches -within ann^s 

lenyth of her : pause and jjicture.) 

Go (faltering, her arm drops to her side) — go ! I spare 

you for the sake of that 
Wife and mother you would disgrace. Go, go — 
For you 'tis well that I remembered her. 

Wolfe (aside). To be thus baited by a frantic woman. 
(Aloud.) Margaret, this mockery must end. You talk 
Of fear, of fate, of honor, and forget 
The greater theme of apprehension, which 
To a woman, wife, — and most of all to you — 
Your husband — 

Sybil. What of my husband ? 

Wolfe. Take care — 

A word from me, and where is all your peace I 
Ha ! am I understood ? Do you not feel 
That I have power with one word to give 
That living death a proud soul most abhors. 



1 



80 SYBIL. [act IT. 

Sybil. Oh, worthy thought, with baseness all com- 
plete, 
What a brave treachery, my friend ! 

Wolfe. Nay, I do uot threaten, but remind. ' 

Hyhil. Oh, you are moderate — very moderate I 
But know, that ere I wedded Eustace Clifden 
I told the shame of this poor hand he wooed. 

Wolfe. You did not — could not — dare not I 

Sybil. By Him who knows 

The secrets of all hearts, I did ; nor held 
Aught from him, save the name, the public name 
As now it doth appear, of my deceiver. 

Wolfe. He would uot have married you ! 

Sybil. He did, and yet before he did, he swore 
On Alfred Stevens to avenge my shame. 
'Twas the condition of my hand, dowry. 
Fortune, all I brought him — ay, it is true I 

Wolfe. Ha I ha ! this tale lacks probability. 
I am a lawyer, Margaret, and detect 
Its inconsistencies. {Noise without.) 

Sybil. They have returned. 
Hear me — you're doomed, unless you leave at once. 

Wolfe. I am no child — [aside) and you a woman 
are. 

Sybil. Your blood, then, be on your own head. (Sits 
at table and conceals the pistol in her dress.) 

Wolfe (seating himself). Nothing by assault to be 
done here ; however, 
Doom, or no doom, to be affrighted I 
Am not, fair Mistress Clifden (aside). 

Enter Clifden, Barnabas, Maude, and Janette. 
Wolfe. A welcome back. Good day, ladies, I hope 



SCENE II.] SYBIL. 81 

you have frightened Mr. Barnabas into something hke 
pleasantry. 

Jan. Oh, yes, he^s merry as a sexton during healthy 
weather. 

Clif. I fear he'll need that functionary soon. 
What think you, Sybil ; pining for his Club, 
And vowing to be gone ere morrow's noon. 

Wolfe, What a compliment to our fair hostess. 

Maude and Janette. Oh, Mr. Barnabas ! 

Bar. Really, ladies, two days out of town undoes my 
constitution. The country is well enough for a day or 
so, but — excuse me, ladies — to one like me it is a — a — a 
bore. Yes, really, I must be off to-morrow. 

Wolfe, To morrow ! Will you not wait for me ? 

Clif Of course he will — {Sybil watching with great 
anxiety.) 

Bar. How long ? 

Wolfe. I intended to have stayed but a day or two ; 
but, bless me, it is so refreshing after our late excite- 
ment — besides, the pleasant nature of the topics [to 
Sybil) we have been discussing — that I am induced to 
make a week of it with Clifden. 

Maude and Janette. Bravo, Colonel ! 

Sybil (with calm energy). Colonel Wolfe, that cannot 
be. It is 
Needful you keep unto your first resolve — 
At once. No longer can my husband be 
Your host, or in this dwelling wish you grace. (Astoniah- 
ment of all.) 

Clif. How, Mistress Clifden I What does this mean — 
to my friend, Sybil ? 

Sybil. He is not your friend, 



82 SYBIL. [act IV. 

Clifden, nor thine or mine : but let me pass — 
I cannot speak here. {Bushes out.) 

Clif. Sybil ? {Exit after her.) 

[Exit Maude and Janette in consternation 

Bar. What's this, in the devil's name ? 

Wolfe. In your name, coward. Can you not see it ? 
Have you any weapons ? 

Bar. My pistols are in the saddle-bags. 

Wolfe. Curse the woman — who could have believed it I 
Barnabas, should it come unto the worst, 
We can but fly. Look you to the horses, 
While I my coolness keep. 

Bar. You wouldn't take my advice ; if — 

Wolfe. This is no time for lecturing. 
Your wisdom's always at the eleventh hour. 
Your base ingratitude 'tis brings all this. 
But hence, if thou would'st not o'erpower'd be, 
And slain remorseless in the trap you've made ; 
Prepare thyself in haste. See to the steeds — 
If she explain, our start can't be too quick, 

[Exit hurriedly. 

Be-enter Clifden, Sybil clinging to him, both having 
hold of the pistol. 

Sybil. The wrong is mine. Oh, go not, Eustace, 
My hand shall avenge it. I am sworn to it. 
If still the victim, let me victor be. 
Your life is precious to me, husband dear, 
More precious than the past — or hope, or name. 

Clif. No, Sybil, you are mine, your wrongs are mine : 
Before just heaven I renew my oath. 

Sybil. Leave me to shame, despair, to any thing ; 
But, Eustace, for the love you bear me, hear ; 



SCENE n.] SYBIL. 83 

For the dear sake of that new-bora blessino* 
Your love has given ray nature, hear me. 
In the name of every tie that heaven 
Welds in the undistinguishable flames 
That leap from mutually enkindled souls — 
In the name of all such union can inspire, 
I here revoke the oath. When I proposed it 
I was not thy wife, but a mad, heartless. 
Vengeance-seeking slave. Nor wife, nor woman 
Was I, but am both through thee, and as both, 
Revoke that withering and peace-crushing oath. 

Cllf. Sybil, you're my life : but tlionirh you and J 
Could in the narrowest corner of the earth 
Find untold regions for our happy loyK^.^ 
All land and sea, the huge round globe itself 
Hath not extent and verge enough to hold 
Thy husband's hand and thy betrayer's heart 
Together on it. While he's upon it 
Earth's too confined for me. While he doth breathe, 
I suffocate ; ay, though I stood upon 
The healthy heights o' tno Aiiegnanies, 
And he on Himalaya's frozen roof, 
With toiling nations and big seas between. 
While his heart beats, congestion crushes mine. 
I must have air. Which may usurp the earth ? 
Either must perish that the other live. 

Sybil. Oh, husband. 

Clif, It must be so ; but, Sybil, 

Whatever happens, to the last thou'rt mine. (Kisses her 
and dashes out.) 

Sybil. Thine, Clifden, thine — only thine, ever thine — 
To the last — the last — the last. (Pause, Sybil looks 
about, screams.) 



84 SYBIL. [act IV. 

He is gone, gone — gone for what ? 

Ha ! I have sent him on this bloody work. 

Surely it is a madness that doth move me. 

Why should he slay Alfred Stevens ? Why ? {Finesses 

her head.) 
What good will come of it ? What safety ? What ? 
{Pause) But why should he not 1 Miserable fate. 
Are we never to be free ? Must he e'er 
Thrust his fiend's visage in our happy homes ; 
And blast our hopes, our peace, our love for ever ? 
No, no — ha ! ha I ha I Better he should die I 
Better we sliould all die. Strike him, Clifden — 
Strike, and fear nothing ! Strike for dear virtue 
And immortal love I Husband, strike deep — 
Strike to the very heart 1 Strike ! Strike I Strike I 

(Fails overcome.) 



SCENE 1.1 SYBIL. 85 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — Dungeon. 
Clifden. Sybil. Mr. Lowe. 

Sybil. There can be no cause for fear — I have none. 
You did not strike for me alone. The wives, 
The mothers, daughters of the State, are all 
Your debtors for the deed. And who that bears 
The lordly title, man, will honor risk 
To slay a brother for defending woman ? 
No, I fear not. If law o'er justice vaunts 
I'll go myself into the open court, 
And, as 'fore heaven, will the story tell, 
In all its plain and foul deformity ; 
No fear, no shame, shall pale or tinge my cheek, 
Or wither, by a fluctuating doubt. 
The fact's full force upon the jury's ear. 
They must believe me when they hear. 

Cilf. My life- 

It cannot be. 

Loive. Will you not be persuaded, my good sir, even 
now, at almost the last day, to employ the services of 
Acton ? Young though he be, he's skilled, as well you 
know, in law ; has no superior with a jury, is popular, 
and strange to say, likewise pure. Let me entreat — 

Clif. Did you not say last night he fought with Wolfe 
On my account ? What was't? My senses grow 
Dull as these granite walls. 

Lowe. It is well known they quarrelled and fought at 
their first meeting, upon pohtical grounds 'twas given 
out — 

8 



86 SYBIL. [ACTV 

Cl'tf, Yes, I remember — I heard that from Barnabas. 

Lowe. But Barnabas, who was present, told me they 
quarrelled on account of Mrs. Clifden {looking round), 
whose name he said was Margaret. 

Clif. Mrs. Clifden ! (Sybil looks up. Clifden motions 
he)* to retire. Exit Sybil.) 

Lowe. Pardon me, my young friend, I did not mean to 
hurt your feelings ; but — 

Clif. It was some natural lie of Wolfe's. 
It could not be. Some foul invention 
To aid his black designs. I never heard 
Of Acton from my wife. 

Lowe. A rumor is abroad which seems to back the as- 
sertion. [Clifden listens eagerly.) However, whether true 
or not, Acton must be the man for your defence. Wolfe's 
friends are very powerful, and will strain every nerve to 
effect your ruin. 

Clif Well, let them triumph ; they but mimic me : 
I've had my triumph. Of a truth, I feel 
That I have done the great deed of my life. 
Death to me now brings no such agony 
As it would bring had I not done this deed. 
And yet — to live for Sybil's sake ? Oh heart I 
The thought of losing her brings many deaths, 
With deeper pangs than the mere loss of life. 

Lowe. Allow me to see Acton. 

Clif.{eayerly). Should I defend myself? Declare the 
act 
And justify it ? [Pause) No : to my own soul — 
To God 'tis justified ; but men who judge. 
Must know my secret ere 'tis so to them. 
The damned tale of Sybil's overthrow. 
The serpent progress of the venomous head 



SCENE I.] SYBIL. 81 

IVe crushed forever, they must hear. How — how 
Can I teW that ? It is impossible. 

Lowe. If you do not decide quickly your friends must 
act for you. Be advised now — do, Clifden, do. His 
friends muat act for him (aside, and going), 

Clif. I thank you sincerely, indeed I do. 
I will think of what you say. I will — I will. \_Exit Lowe. 

Re-enter Sybil. 

Sybil (she comes to him and puts her arm about him), 
You never told me your acquaintance with Acton. 

Sybil. Acton — 

Clif. Whom we defeated. 

Sybil. Dear, I know him not. Let me see — Acton ? 
'Tis like a waif from my dream-haunted youth. 
(Thinks) I once did know a person of that name — 
An old man — schoolmaster at Eaglemont ; 
I have nor seen nor heard of him for years. 

Clif, An old man — how old ? 

Sybil. Some five-and-sixty years. 

Clif. It is not the same. Perhaps he had a son ? 

Sybil. He had no son : was never married. 

Clif It is strange. 

Sybil. What, Eustace — what is strange ? 

Clif Nothing, — nothing. 

Sybil (aside), I fear he wanders. (He gazes fondly on 
and kisses her.) Eustace, will you not 
Advised be, and give your holy cause 
To Acton's hands ? To him your friends all point 
As one above the jealousies that rise 
In selfish minds from zeal-distempered politics. 
I've heard you laud his talents to the skies. 



88 SYBIL. [ACTT 

CUf. I have. All true ! but, Sybil, my blood chills 
To thiuk of making a defence. 

Sybil. Why this strange callousness. 

CUf. I killed him ; and evasion would not seek 
From the confronted dangers of an act 
Deliberate ; and one I'd do again. 
Evasion or suggestion cannot come 
From me, or any interested in me. 
It must not come. Truth will condemn me, and 
I knew it with the weapon in my grasp. 

Sybil. What — the v)hole truth condemn us ? 

CUf. Perhaps not ; but how to get the whole truth 
out : 
And if it could be done, / could not do it. 

Sybil. Why not, my husband? Shame now's gone 
from us ; 
We are above the world or beneath it. 
It gives our hearts no sustenance. It may 
Scorn me, the miserable victim of its ways, 
But can it, dare it, call me harlot ? No ! 
I did not plunge, but fell into the gulf — 
Fell through vain weakness which relied on man : 
And, oh, if spirit ever felt remorse 
That doth denote wronged virtue's penitence, 
Believe me, Clifden, it was mine. 

CUf Do I not know it, dearest (fondling her) I 

Sybil. I believe you feel it, which conviction gives 
Strength to my soul to face a world. Let it 
Know all, if all will any thing avail. 
With my own tongue would I declare the facts 
Before I'd see thee dragged unto the gallows. 

CUf And I would mount the scaffold a thousand 
timss. 



SCENE I.] SYBIL. m 

Had I a thousand lives, than suffer you 
To work such cruel wrong against thyself. 
Live, dearest, live ; and living, daily read 
The boast I carve upon my tomb — I died 
For thee ! I wed thee for that purpose : 
I am true to it. 

Sybil. You said you loved me ! 

Clif. And do I not ? 

Sybil. Eustace, the more one loves 

The more he loves to live. 'Tis easier 
To die than live ; which makes life beautiful 
And grand to those who love ; for love's true tests 
Are not so much in overmast'ring hearts, 
As that grim world which makes the bright heart black. 
Let us o'ercome this world with the truth I 
It may frown, but that will only roughen 
Its own face, and never ruffle ours. 

Clif. You make me chide myself. 

Sybil. Have we no resource but sorrow, husband ? 
Who will meet these judges if not you or I ? 
Your friends all point to Acton — why delay ? 
Oh, Clifden, husband, let no coward shame 
Hide from all ears the tale of your brave blow. 
If you or I can't speak, let us heap up 
Our two hearts' histories on Acton's soul, 
Until he, heated with the treble fires 
Of wrong, death, eloquence, — hate, love, and fame. 
Shall drive the doubtful demon from men's hearts, 
And make them strong for deeds of mercy. 
They say he's brave, well-versed, high-minded, pure — 
Your lesser self I — What would you more ? 

Clif. No more may be expected of a man. 
But wait, wife — wait — to-morrow — 
8* 



90 SYBIL. [actv. 

Sybil. To-morrow ! 

{Aside) To-morrow, and the chance is lost ; yet I 
Stand here as though unwed to my avenger, 
Seeing him fade before my very eyes, 
Dragging love, life, all hopes of earth and heaven 
With him. I'll see this Acton. [Takes a basket and is 

going — looks at Clifden — returns. 
Kiss me, Eustace {kisses). Be cheerful as the day 
That saw us wedded {going). 'Twas for life and death. 
[Uxit, Clifden looking fond I g after her. 

Scene II. — Boom in Acton's liouse. 
Enter Old Acton and William Acton. 

Acton. How little could I think that Olifden, he 
To whom I owe so much of my defeat. 
Was married to this girl. What a wild fate 
At once has prompted and waylaid her life — 
More wretched ev'n in her triumphal hour 
Of vengeance, than in all her days of shame. 

Old A. As dreadful, too, the retribution on 
Alfred Stevens. Little could you have thought 
Your boyhood's rival for the village girl 
Would be your victor on the wider field 
Of politics : Or that his fastest friend 
And ablest advocate, in slaying him. 
Would by the blow avenge thy youthful wrongs. 
This woman's mission has been one of woe ; 
My son, 'twas well ye parted in your youth. 

Acton. Had she been mine, this dreadfulest of tales 
Would never chill men's veins. 

Old A. It is a tale 

Which future mothers will rehearse, to teach 



SCENE II.] SYBIL. 91 

The beads, if not to touch the hearts, of proud 
Aud wilful daughters. 

Acton. Can we not aid them ? 

Clifden's devotion, if not Margaret^s wrongs, 
Should fire with eloquence some honest voice. 
Can we not aid them, father ? 

Old A. How, my son ? 

Clifden hath all resources of the law ; 
He hath, besides, a worthy pride of brain. 
Our interference might be misconstrued, 
If not by him, at least by tetchy friends, 
So high the flame of party spirit runs, 
As an assumption of superior skill : 
And then your duel for the woman's sake. 
When her identity is fully known. 
Perhaps might only, 'stead of mercy, build 
In the censorious such conjecture as 
Would act against her. 

Acton. I loved her — she refused me. That is all — 
Is easily told ; and I am not the man, 
Nor you to teach me, to allow my pride 
Rise in rebellion 'gainst a mortal's life. 
I loved her — she refused me. {Muses — turns aside ivid 
leans his head on his hand.) 

Enter Sybil. 

Old A. [recogniziny her as she approaches). Miss 
Cooper I 
Can it be {in a loio voice) ? 

Sybil It is. {Aside.) Old Acton of Eaglemont. 
Go where I will, some ghost of that dread spot 
Haunts me in human form. 



92 SYBIL. [ACTV. 

There's some mistake, sir, I seek the lawyer, 
Mr. William Acton. 

Old A. My son — no mistake. 

li^yh'il. Your son, sir ! 

Old A. Yes, my son, and your old friend. 
He is here — William. 

[Sybil approaches a few steps towards William 
Acton, he turns round — they recognize.) 

Sybil {aside). William Ashley I [To him) You know 
me, Mr. Acton, 
I see you know me. 

Acton. Could I forget you ! 

Sybil. Not forget, perhaps : but — but — 
Of course you know my person ; — who I was, 
But — not who I am. 

Acton. Yes, that I know. 

Sybil. Thank heaven ! Something then is spared 
me ! 

Acton. I know the whole sad story, Margaret — 
Mistress Chfden. Can /do thee service [with emotion) ? 
Is it for this you seek me ! 

Sybil. It is. 

Acton. I'm ready. All that lies within my power 
You can command. Most necessary His 
That I immediately your husband see. 

Sybil. Cannot that be avoided — I know all. 

Acton. Your husband's danger I'll not hide from you. 
Society is sick of deeds of blood, 
And will, I fear, exact law's coldest rigor. 

Sybil [eagerly). But the provocation of the villain 
Whom he slew — what have I said ! 

Acton. What you have said, you have in secret said ; 
Your husband well doth know the lawyer's need; 



SCENE n.] SYBIL. 93 

To do liim justice I must see himself : 

To meet the worst, his friends must know the worst. 

And I will see him — I'm thy friend and his. 

Sybil {aside). Eustace cannot refuse me when he's 
there. 
'Tis best. I thank thee deeply, William Ashley — 
I feel I don't deserve this at thy hands. 
Thou art avenged for all the past. ( Weeps.) 

Acton. Margaret, 

I need no such atonement. To see thee thus 
Brings me no feelings but of stubborn pain, 
Which cannot in thy misery be tamed. 
Oh, such a youth — such pride of promise. 

Sybil. Ay, indeed, such pride ! — Such pride, and such 
a fall. 

Acton. But is there not hope still — 

Sybil. For him ? You will save him ? 

Acton. I will try. 

Syhil. I know you will — you must I But even then 
I sometimes think there is no hope on earth. 
I am a wreck. If I outlive this storm, 
'Twill be as a craft hereafter useless. 
These storms have shattered me. I fear my brain 
Will, like the hurricane, sweep wildly out. 
And leave my head as empty as the space 
'Twixt earth and sky, to either not allied — 
Or filled with fathomless wild clouds, that give 
Terror to earth below, in shutting out 
All hopeful specks of heaven above. 

[^Old Actoriy who has been a quiet spectator, wipes 
away a teavy and exits silently, 

Acton. Hope is the sustenance of youth, and you 
Are young. 



94 SYBIL. [ACTV. 

Sybil. I've faith in you. I always had 
Reliance on your truth. 

Acton. Had you believed so then — 

Sybil. I did believe so. 

Acton. Could you have thought — 

Sybil [trembling). No more — say no more. 

Acton [half musing). Could it have been, there had 
been now no wreck. 

Sybil {with stern frenzy). Speak not thus. The past 
is past. 
It could not have been otherwise. There was 
A fate to humble me, and I am humbled. 
I am here to sue, to beg your succor. 
'Tis best so. You have nothing to deplore. 
Oh, William — William {seizes him) ! forget the past — 
Or, if you still will cling unto those days, 
Remember them to save him, for my sake. 
Save him — my hfe, my husband. Come — come — come — 
Each moment from him is a lifetime now. \_Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Dungeon, as before. 

Enter Clifden, Sybil, and Jailer. Jailer exit, and 
closes the door upon them. Noise of bolts. 

Clif. {embraces Sybil). The ordeal's past that I most 
feared to meet. 
The trial than the sentence has more dread. 
To one who fears death less than scrutiny. 
To be the gaze of every sottish boor 
Who hiccoughs jeers and damns me for a fool ; 
The criticised of cold and upright knaves 
Who knit their brows in reverence of laws 
They daily break, and say " how bold he looks — 



SCENE III. J SYBIL. 95 

The murderer ;" the fashionable chat 

Of fellows whose weak lives are lust, whose dreams 

Are drunken echoes of their days, and who 

In self-defence must say " he looks a villain ;" 

The topic for those philanthropic dogs 

Who bark at every thing, and never bite, 

"Who'd let the vilest progeny of hell 

Loose on the earth that they might rail against them ; — 

To be this ; hemmed in a dock, the bars of which 

Have propp'd up every crime that law and gold, 

Thirst, madness, tainted blood, foul head, black heart, 

Or tortured nature e'er invented ; — this 

Gives a shock to make a pure man quake. 

But it is over — the dread trial's past. 

And I'm prepared. The verdict cannot bring 

Aught but rehef. 

Sybil {doubtfully). Does not the defence bring hope? 
With all my actuality of wrong 
I never knew how great the villain was. 
My own infirmity, or your great soul. 
Till Acton set in dreadfulest display 
The picture 'fore my eyes. 

Clif. A brave, bright soul ! 

Upon whose brow great nature's mark is good. 
As nobly balanced as the poles, as wide 
Of heart, and fathomless in honesty 
As the deep sea, whose currents, ever fresh, 
Play with the leaded line that seeks its depth. 

Sijhil. And when with such calm emphasis he rose 
To the laws venue, and declared that he. 
Knowing the vulture passions of the dead. 
Would not have held your weapon from the act 
That sent a lifers debts to be paid above, 



96 SYBIL. [actv. 

I could have worshipped him before all eyes 
But that his speech did choke all words for mine. 
Oh, Clifden, how his words drag down my brain 
With thoughts which taunt me with my selfish ends. 
Have mercy on me — pardon my hot blood 
That fused your genius to my vengeance. 
Forgive me, husband, for nor earth nor heaven 
Will come between me and the odious sin. 

Clif. (putting his arm about her). Sybil, my own — my 

beautiful — my bride — 
Look in my face, and see if there's a line 
By which you may not trace my heart's proud boast — 
That you're my wife I [JVoise of bolts. They watch the 

door.) 

Enter William Acton. 

Sybil [rushes towards Acton and falls on her knets). If 
the full prayers of one like me can reach 
The throne, they are there pleading for you now. 

Acton. Rise, Margaret [raisinr/ Iter) — rise : 'tis not for 
you to kneel 
To me. 

Clif How can I measure my poor thanks 
To fill your measureless exertions ! 
Acton. Were the deed mine, 1 know you would have 
stood 
In my defence where I have stood in yours, — 
That is thanks enough for me. But the court 
Waits ; the jury have returned. 
Sybil. So soon! (Startled.) 
Clif I am ready. 

Sybil (to Acton). What prospect ! — Did they bear 
Acquittal on their faces ? Did they seem 



SCENE III.] SYBIL 9t 

As though their hearts throbbed with a good deed ? 
Or did their eyes see corpses in the air ? 
Say, say. Did they breathe freely, or held up, 
Lest they might lack enough of breath to float 
That grave-stone sentence — " Guilty !" Ah, I feel 
My life is slipping through their hands. 

Clif. We attend the court [going). 

Acton. 'Tis better that your wife remain. {Sghil listens.) 

Sybil (screams). Then all is lost ! 

[Clif den kisses her j she struggles to go with liwn ; 
he gently disengages her., and hurries out ajtei 
Acton. Sybil falls on her knees in auony^ 

Sybil {after a pause., gazing up wildly). What say 
you — Guilty, or Not Guilty ? 
Stay, stay — hear me ! Old man, your looks are kind — 
You have a daughter ; ah ! I knew you had. 
There is such tender comfort in your eye. 
I had a father once : take care, old man, 
Your comfort may not wither 'neath the touch 
Of the destroyer. Ha I you shake your head : 
But look at me — who thought that I could fall ? 
Old man, beware ! Your heartlessness makes way 
For such as dragg'd me down. Go, go ! 
You have a sister, sir ; protect the man 
Who has protected her ! You smile to think 
She needs protection ; — Fool ! all women do. 
You will not speak to me — go to, coward. 
And you ;^-but no, there's earth about your eyes — 
They're clay : debauch has settled on your cheek ; 
Time's very precious, I cannot speak with you. 
Nor you, thou low-brbwed homily on man. 
But here, 1 have a man, and married too ? 
'Tis well ! He'll feel for me ! What think you now— 



98 SYBIL. [actv. 

Your bosom friend comes gloziug round your wife 

And seeks to raise such hellish flames in her 

As leave you but in ashes — Eh — eh ? 

Kill him you would ? Brave husband ! Then say which — 

" Guilty," or " Not Guilty ?" Speak it loud— loud— 

That your good presence may inspire these knaves. 

Gone — where is my good friend gone ? All are going ! 

Stay — look at this youth, my husband : think you 

He committed murder — ha ! ha ! He ? No ! 

He did ? I say he did not I What a world 

Of men, fathers, brothers, husbands — all gone. 

Where is my Clifden ? Gone too (screa?ns) — they've 

taken him 
To death — the gallows! {Cheering; outside.) Hear how 

the rabble shout 
To see a brave man die. Oh Clifden ! — husband ! 

Unter Clifden, Acton, Maude, Janette, Mr. Lowe, 
Mrs. Hardy. 

Voices outside. Not guilty ! 

Sj/bil {rushing to Clifden). Not guilty [falls into his 

arms) — not guilty ! Did I hear aright ? 
Clif Yes, dearest Sybil — yes. I am here — free ! 
Sybil. Free ! Oh [a long sigh), this great joy has 
ta'en the little life 
My sorrow left. Forgive me, William : 
Kiss me, dear mother — sisters, fare ye well. 
O'l. do not leave me, Eustace ; — Let me feel you near — 
Close to my heart, my husband : — Come, — come. 
I cannot see you now — there is a film 
Hovering o'er my sight. Eustace, good-by ! 
Have mercy, heaven ! — " Not — Guilty." (Sinks.) 

(Slow music as curtain descends.) 



SYBIL — Cast op Characters. 



ST. LOUIS THEATRE. 
September 6, 1858. 

Eustace Cli/den Mr. Charles Pope. 

Riif us Wolfe " Hamblin. 

Old Acton " Griffiths. 

William Acton " Wright. 

Mr. Lowe " Hind. 

Barnabas " F. Paige. 

Landlord of the Red Heifer . " Klone. 

Gentlemen " Pennoyer. 

Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 

Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 

Maude Clifden " Pennoyer. 

Janetle 

ST. CHARLES. 
New Orleans, 1859. 

Eustace Clifden Mr. Chas. Pope. 

Rufus Wolfe " Hamblin. 

Old Acton " Griffiths, 

William Acton " Wright. 

Mr. Lowe 

Barnabas " F.Paige. 

Landlord of the Red Heifer. " Krone. 

Gentlemen 

Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 

Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 

Maude Clifden Miss Pennoyer. 

Janette " Fanny Denham. 

OPERA HOUSE. 
San Francisco. 

Eustace Clifden Mr. Lewis Baker. 

RufusWolfe " KiNGSLAND. 

Old Acton " Mortimer. 

William Acton " Coad. 

Mr. Lowe " ThO-van. 

Barnabas " Dumphries. 

Landlord of the Red Heifer. " McCabe. 

Gentlemen " Thayer. 

Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 

3Irs. Hardy Mrs. Judah. 

Maude Clifden Miss Cogswell. 

Janette " Jennie Mandeville. 



LOUISVILLE, KY. 

Mr. Keeble. 
'• Riley. 
" Townsend. 
" Dickson. 
" Lorton. 

" Wm. SCALtA*' 



Miss Avonia Jones. 
Mrs. Gilbert. 
Miss Irene Walker. 
" Ida Vernon. 



MOBILE, ALA. 

Mr. Hanley. 
" Ralton. 

" CURRAN. 

" Ashmed. 
" Raymond. 



Miss Avonia Jones. 

" Berrel. 
Mrs. Lingard. 

" H. Bernard. 



METROPOLITAN. 
Sacramento, Cal. 

Mr. Lewis Baker. 

" Kingsland. 

" Mortimer. 

" Coad. 

" Thoman. 

" Glover. 

" Macklin. 



Miss Avonia Jones. 
" Nellie Brown. 
" Cogswell. 
" J. Mandeville. 



100 



SYBIL— CAST OF CHARACTERS. 



WINTER GARDEN. 
New York. 

Eustace Clifdeii Mr. Barton Hill. 

Rufas Wolfe " J.J. Prior. 

Old Acton " Jeffries. 

William Acton " A. H. Davenport. 

Mr. Lowe " W. Davidge. 

Barnabas " C Walcot, Jr. 

Landlord of the Bed Heifer. ' ' Styles. 

r " J. H. Evans. 

Gentlemen ^ u clarke. 

Sybil Hardy Miss Matilda Heron. 

3Irs. Hardy Mrs. Walcot. 

Maude Clifden Miss Annie Wilks. 

Janette " Fanny Browne, 

HOWARD ATHEN.^UM. 
Boston. 

Eustace CRifden Mr. James Doff. 

Rufus Wolfe " F. E. AiKEN. 

Old Acton 

William Acton 

Mr. Lowe 

Barnabas 

Landlord of the Red Heifer. 
Gentlemen 

Sybil Hardy Mrs. Emma Waller. 

Mrs. Hardy 

Maude Clifden Miss M. Newton. 

Janette 



WALNUT STREET, 
Philadelphia. 

Mr. Lawrence P.Barrett 

" E. L. Tilton. 

" G. Johnson 

" Wright. 

" B. Young. 

" Bascombe. 

" Porter. 

" Raymond. 

" Matthews. 

Mrs. Emma Waller. 
Miss Wood. 

" Josephine Tyson. 

" Johnson. 



The casts at many prominent city theatres— such as those 
at Richmond, Cincinnati, Chicago, Memphis, Nashville, Provi- 
dence, and other minor places in the United States, and Mel- 
bourne, Australia, were unattainable. 



COPYRIGHT PRIVILEGE. 

Managers or actors desirous of producing this drama will commu- 
nicate with the author, care of the Publislier, New York. 



EVA: A GOBLIN ROMANCE 

IN FIVE PARTS. 



EntereC accordlnj^ to Act of Congress, in ttie year 1864, 

By JOHN SAVAGE, 

lu the Clerk's OHice of tiie District Court for the Southern District of 
New York. 



TO 

ROBERT SHELTON MACKENZIE, D. C. L. 

My Dear Doctor: — 

I feel a pardonable pride in offering you this little book. 
Were its merits but equal to tlie gratification experienced in 
dedicating it to you, its reputation would be a foregone conclu- 
sion, and only make me more happy that it was in some de- 
gree worthy of your acceptance. I pray you, however, to take 
it, such as it is, as a small token of my appreciaf-on of your in- 
defatigable labors in the cultivation and dissemination of a 
healthy and hearty Polite Literature, of your high sense of 
professional independence, and of your generosity to profes- 
sional juniors — a generosity the more gladly recorded here be- 
cause I have been a partaker of its fruits. 

Among contemporary writers, I am not aware of any more 
ready to welcome and endorse what your judgment recognizes 
as deserving ; or who, being forced into an opj)Osite course, 
justifies his disapproval out of resources more complete, or by 
standards more compatible with common sense and the dig- 
nity of letters. These characteristics, so widely valued and 
respected, fortify the desire of personal regard to inscribe this 
romance with your name. 

A word as to the work itself. While illustrating the plot — 
if I may call it such— by the resources Fancy and Imagination 
conjure up as lying within the supernatural and fairy realms, 
and by the reflection of the scenery, occasion, and moods of the 
actors upon each other, I have attempted — like an old-fashioned 
etory-teller — more than once to point a moral ; and in the con- 
1* 



6 DEDICATION. 

eluding part, to lead the mind to dwell on the still higher, 
more enduring, and more consoling teaching of Christianity, 
that, amid the vicissitudes which rack man — not the least 
crusliing of which is a transition from the egotistic rapture of 
a passionate young love to the humiliating consciousness ot 
moody despair — his only comfort and lasting reward is to he 
found in the self-sacrifice, the resignation — in a word — the 
humble, but heroic virtues symbolized by The Cross. 

Accept, my dear Doctor, this dedication, with the affectionate 
esteem of 

Your Friend, 

John Savage. 

FoRDHAM, Septemher 25, 1865. 



EVA. 



PART FIRST. 



The evening Sun was setting fair 

Beneath a sky of bine, 
And Nature's charms on earth, in air, 

Were fading into dew : 



n. 

The sun's broad beams athwart did lie 
The crimson-mantled West, 

As a golden Cross of Chivalry 
Charged on a purple vest : 



EVA. 



m. 

The evening star, with tender freight 

Of charitable mirth, 
Did seem to cheer and gratulate 

The daj-tired sons of earth. 



IV 



A gentle breath the shrubs among- 

A gentle si^h of air. 
As though a gentle maiden's song 

Was lilting here and there ; 



V. 

The busy bushes keeping time, 
The tendrils join each note, 

And all is soft as silv'rj rhyme 
From out a silv'rv throat : 



VI. 

The grass assumes a whimpering thrill 

As throuD^h it wino-s the wind. 
So gently though, it scarcely speeds 
To coax a chorus from yon weeds, 
Ere all is still behind : 



EVA. 

vn. 
The dry steins wlieeze a tiny pipe 

To show they wakeful lie, 

As urchins mumble unknown type 

When pedagogue struts by : 

vin. 

The wild rose blushes on the eve 

Of going to its rest, 
And bends its crimson cheek to grievt 

On mother Earth's calm breast. 



IX. 

The dew steals o'er primroses pale 

Which deck yon shady place ; 
And clustering in a shy delight, 
Help to shake the tears of night 
From off each others' face : 



X. 

And hawthorn blossoms titter low, 

For fear their joyannce reach 
The matron-like and crabbed boughs, 
While am'rons Air essays its vows 
And steals a kiss from each : 



10 EVA. 



XI. 



The mountain Ash, gaj lithe and young. 

With knowledge of its grace, 
Unheedful hears the gallant's song, 
'Nor cares be won by secret tongue, 

It bends to bolder face. 



xn. 

The evening calm as the smile of Him, 
Who said, " Thy Will be done," 

And the pious air seemed hushed in prayei 
Like a seraphic nun. 



xm. 

The scene was wild, yet Fancy made 

Its features full of balm 
As though it joined the lengthening shade 

To make the day's death calm. 

XIV. 

In truth it was a placid scene 

Where awe did wonder woo : 
Yea, such as men full seldom ken 

The coming: twilischt tliroug-h. 



EVA. 11 

XV, 

It is a brocken valley wild, 

The Dodder streaming down 
Its centre, and the mountain heath 
Envelops with a purple wreath 

Kippure's age-mottled crown. 

XVI. 

O valley ! consecrate to song, 

In poet-warrior's soul, 
Where memories of Ossian throng — 

Delightful Glan-nis-mole ! ^ 

xyh, 

O valley ! famed in Ancient days 

Not more by Ossian's voice, 
Than thrushes', whose bewildering maze 
Of melody made all thy braes 

And hundred dells rejoice. 

xvm. 

Komantic, rugged, sombre, grand, 

The hills jut out and fall 
Into the devious vale, as thous^h 
To stay the Dodder's reckless How . 

Which, foams, and frets, through all. 



12 EVA. 

XIX. 

Tliej drive the stream from shore to shore ; 

It shakes with rage, then sweeps 
Around the base, with lengthening pace. 
With sullen surge, breaks through the gorge, 

And frothing, onward leaps. 

XX. 

By Aljagower, clear as glass 

The pools glide smoothly free. 
Till further down, a group of rocks, 
Like bathing dwarfs, jumps up and mocks 

Their placid ecstasy. 

XXI. 

Then like branch-broken rays from sun — 
Or sparks from the blacksmith's blow — 

Or, shattered gems, they flash and run 
To frothen the angry flow. 

xxn. 

And now they chant a boisterous song, 

United, now they hymn. 
And anon they murmuring lilt along 

In the shade of yon brocken, dim. 



EVA. 13 

xxin. 

The brave ship many leagues must tack 

As air and ocean wills : 
So strove the river, making track 

Athrough tliis sea of hills. 

xxrv. 

An ivj-quilted scanty ruin 

Lies hugged i' the valley wild ; 
And tombs there tell, of all save hell 

To martyr, man, and child. 



XXV. 

In the shade of the lonely pile, 

Like life within a dream. 
In the shade of the holy aisle 

A listening to the stream — 

XXVI. 

A listening to the Dodder's woes 

A-neath the ivy green, 
A damsel and youth, the like in sooth 

I'm sure you ne'er have seen. 
2 



14 KVA. 



XXVII. 



Ye sprites, it was a dreamy scene 
And a witching wild one, too, 

Sucli as we but seldom see. 
The elfin twilight through. 



xxvm. 

The youthful maid an angel's face- 
And angel's form, I ween, 

A mingling grace lit up her face 
Of blooming ripe sixteen. 



xxix. 

Tresses like an autumn night • 
Hang o'er her forehead's day. 

Darkly rich — a pearly light 
Outlines each curling spray 



XXX. 

Eyes of such unearthly light. 
Though dark as ever wrought ; 

By Heaven ! they twist me as a sprite, 
Though I but see in thought. 



EVA. 15 



XXXI. 



Much more they twisted yon poor soul, 

The brave youth by her side, 
Whose pupils rise to the maid's dark eyes 
And in the wild glance dies, and dies 
To live in hopeful pride. 



XXXII. 

He sighs, that wily nature should 
Play freaks to show her might. 

And make in witching maidenhood 
The darkest eyes most bright. 

XXXIII. 

Her forehead, as white marble, pale, 

The veins an azure river. 
Where tints of Ireland's skies prevail 

In softness, softening ever. 



XXXIV. 

Her cheeks, the dainty tenderness 

As when at morning's dawn. 
The sun-beam is shed, tlirough a rose-leaf, red, 

On a neighboring ceanavaun.^ 



16 EVA. 



XXXV. 



Her lips ! a liealtliy pure repast — 
A sylpli's or mortal's, which ? 

The upper like the bright spring cast. 
The under autumn rich : 



XXXVI. 



And both control a fragrant breath 
Like breeze o'er summer flowers, 

When jocund morn enliveneth 
Earth's re-awakened powers. 



XXXVII. 



Her voice was like a happy thought 
AYhose speaking smile did sun you, 

And ere you heard the opening word 
The movement had undone you. 



XXXVIII. 



A raiment white with girdle green 
Her dainty waist about, 

For as her heart was pure within, 
Her garb was pure without. 



EVA. 17 



XXXIX. 



So take tlie fair for all in all ; 

Such a pure thougli tempting smile, 
^e'er shone from maid 
As on him who strayed 

Through that old monastic aisle. 



XL. 

Comely shaped the youth, and slender ; 
With four summers o'er her own : 
And ever since they gambolled 
On the hill-paths over-brambled, 
In sunny childhood's days, the tender 
Passion, with their growth had grown. 



XLI. 

Never slept it : for their sleeping 
Ne'er was by its dreams forsaken — 
Sleep, our Nature's El Dorado, 
Only held it by a shadow — 

While they gathered golden dream-tales 

To be told when they'd, awaken. 
2* 



18 EVA. 



XLII. 



Thus tlieir nights were but as segments 

Of the circle of their days ; 
And their young hearts, sunny centres, 

Rich with Love's converging rays. 



XLIII. 

Young Kevin Dhu, so was he hight, 

For ay, was youth as good 
As e'er bent bow on Saxon foe. 
Or boasted the commingling flow 

Of Celto-Korman blood. 

XLIV. 

His voice is full and freshly clear 

As the breeze on Cc\nm'ragh's crown ; 

His hand can harp to a maiden's ear 
Or strike a foeman down. 



XLV. 

The brown locks cluster on his brow, 
Like grapes on the brow of Pan, 

And you see a man in the youth though now 
The youth is scarcely man. 



EVA. 19 



XL VI. 



Lonely looks tlie ancient pile ; 

But love is lonely never, 
When loving eyes exchange the while 

The arrows from Love's quiver. 



xLvn. 



Solemn the weird and lonely scene, 
Solemn the tombs arraigned — 

It looks as Life had all buried been. 
And they alone remained. 



xLvin. 



In truth, it was a holy scene, 
And a lonely wild one too, 

Such as men full seldom ken 
The dusky twilight through. 



XLIX. 



A harp, Love's vibrant symbol, rude 
In shape, but sweet in tone. 

Lay o'er a tomb, as though its mood 
Was dirging the dead alone. 



20 EVA. 



L. 



She sate her down upon a tomb, 

A cross rose high before, 
With mossy shapes from Time's gray womb, 

Emboss'd and stained o'er. 



LI. 

" What hopes !" he cried, '' what love, what trutli, 
These ancient crosses speak ! 
What chastening thoughts for strength and 
youth, 
What sinews for the weak ! 



LH. 

" With Yandal Time, their Sculptures rude 
But sacred combat well ; 
Like trusty friends, they have outstood 
The wealth that from us fell. 



Lin. 

" ' Twould seem the centuried bones beneat 
With strength of faith had grown 
To mark the true soul's hope in death, 
And rose iu sculptured stone. 



EVA. 21 



LIV. 



" Ye granite graybeards of the past 
Who watch our kindred o'er, 
With us may e'er thy teachings last, 
That we the Cross adore. 



LV. 

" These crosses, like great note-marks, stand 
O'er all the Celtic sod, 
Grown gray in agony of love 
Eeferrinc: us to God !" ^ 



LVI. 

And then, as dropping in the tide 
Of thought his fervor sprung, 

The youth in Celtic anguish sighed 
Its mysty waves among. 



Lvn. 

'Twas but a moment, though it seemed, 

In retrospection, years. 
And waking from the life he dreamed — 

Ancestral blood and tears — 



22 EVA. 



Lvm. 



He leaned against the carven cross, 

That rood of liolj stone, 
In love's weird tremors both at loss, 

To claim each heart their own. 

LIX. 

He brushed his brow, he snatched his harp, 

A prelude wildly rang ; 
Then melting to a plaintive width 

Of soul, he to her sang : 

A love-lorn minstrel once there dwelt, 

In a valley fair to view, 
Whose young rapt soul and senses knelt, 

A heavenly maid to woo. 
His love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate,'' 

Pure as yon spring of Saint Ann, — 
He loved with the fervor soul doth create. 

As a minstrel only can. 

(n.) 

He roamed like spirit called from earth, 
Chimed from its grave -of rest. 



EVA. 23 

Penance to eke for some worldlie mirth, 

Or for some act nnblest : 
For his love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate, 

Killing as e'en the Saint's ban : 
Oft voiceless, his was an ideal state 

Of loving, as minstrel can. 

(m.) 

He tracked her steps, o'er vale and hiU, 

True as the shadow she made ; 
He blessed the sod whereon she trod, 

And the breeze that romid her played. 
For never to him had the sense of sound 

So lovingly tender grown, 
As when the air, caressing the fair, 

Partook of her dulcet tone. 

(IV.) 

The Holy Well at which she drank 

To him more holy grew 
Each tree that gave her shade, each bank 

She rested on, he knew ! 
For he gazed on his love as Martyr would 

On the hope that raised his soul, 
And his eyes to her rolled as the halo should 

Bound the head of the Yirgin roll. 



'M ETA. 

(V.) 

Oh, this maid was his sole didnity 1 

A model for aye far above 
Aught his brain, in its minstrel affinity 

To heaven, could weave for his love ! 
And he loved her as Kate loved Saint Kevin, 

And he traced her as dial tlie sun ; 
For at morning, at noon, or at even. 

By either you'd find t'other one. 

(VI.) 

And though they had gambolled in youthhood. 

From childhood to each other clung. 
Yet neither had strength in their truthhood, 

!N^or perfectly freedom of tongue : 
For love, when it grows up from childhood, 

l!Te'er thijiks to seek deeper the clue. 
But looks on each face as the wildwood, 

Where unconscious their heart-flowers grew. 

(vn.) 

And though he had laughed forth his fancies, 
And though she reechoed his tale. 

Yet for one word each heart inward glances — 
That one word of blessing or bale. 



EVA. 25 

LX. 



" All, sad is the time !" spake Eva, 
" When hearts are unconsciouslj tost ; 
'Twere better that one should have spoken 
Than voiceless that both should be lost. 



LXI. 



'^ Ah," sighed she, " I pain for the maiden !" 
" And I," quoth he, " wail for the youth !" 
"And did neither make them an Aiden, 
By shriving the other from ruth ? 



Lxn. 

" And did neither think of presuming 

On friendship that from their birth grew ?" 

" Ah, no !" said the young bard resuming 
His harp, and its love-burdened clue ; 

" Though the youth but in her saw his heaven, 
Still spake not, or heard not the word / 
For," he faltered, " the youth's name was Kevin, 
And — Eva, the maid he adored !" 



2(» EVA. 



LXIII. 



Witli modest, not unconscious air, 

Dear Eva heard him close : — 
And looked, but spoke not, worlds of prayer, 

That only true love knows. 



Lxrv. 



She felt — she knew, she had his heart, 
And that it spake through her, 

And waited her responsive part 
From him^ — nor dared to stir, — 



LXV. 



Nor dared to stir, lest she displace 
The accents she well knew 

Her heart must make ; but woke apace 
To her own maiden view. 



LXVI. 

" Ah, Kevin ! in my maiden soul 
Is the heart that I bereft 
Thee of — that I, unconscious, stole, — 
Yet, willing for the theft : 



EVA. 27 



LXVII. 



" Ay, willing for the theft ! O youth, 
O Kevin dear ! 'tis frail 
That Eva's tongue should tell ; but truth 
And love's a sad tell-tale." 



Lxvrn. 



" Angel of Eva ! let me hear 

Those kindling thoughts again ; 
That Hope's clear light may shame the bier 
Where chilling Doubt lies slain !" 



LXIX. 



" My Kevin dear, fain would I tell, — 
My tongue but shames its place, 
My lips but mock the inward spell 
That needs w^ould outward trace. 



LXX. 



" My heart is throbbing like a sea. 

And could sea span the skies above, 
I feel its vast immensity 

Could not cradle half my love." 



28 EVA. 

LXXI. 



Entranced in her speech, lie gazed 
As thoiigli a statue still — 

Or like a breathless sculptor, dazed 
At his creative skill. 



Lxxn. 



But suddenly he started, — bright, 
His thankful gestures spoke. 

As vocal as a host of light. 
In cave dawn never woke. 



Lxxin. 



His harp fell on the tufted moss, 
His tongue seemed in his fingers,'^ 

That motion all his words, — at loss 

While speech on his dumb mouth lingers 



LXXIV. 

He wrapt her to his burning breast, 
That love should fear no cheating ; 

He prest her, that each pledging test 
Should feel each other beating. 



EVA. 29 



LXXT. 



Exchanged troths of love were given, 
And Echo sealed each tone, 

Before the Cross, and the holy heaven, 
In the ivied ruin lone. 



EVA. 31 



PART SECOND. 



As thus the pair entranced were, 
Each with the other's love ; 

Unseen, unheard, about them there 
A horrid pageant wove. 



n. 

Old name-lost tombs 'gan start to life — 
The dead 'gan hobbling out. 

Martyrs and monks, and man and wife, 
To witness what they're about. 



m. 

As lumberinglj moved the mounds 
That did the ground encumber. 

The headstones cracked their lichen skins, 
And yawn'd, like sots in slumber. 



32 EVA. 

IV. 

Old battered memories on the walls, 
Took shape and left their places ; 

Crushed effigies in crumbling stalls, 
Eesumed their forms and faces. 



V. 

And skeletons helped with rattling noise 
To empty each other's graves, 

To witness the troth and hear the voice 
Of love that daintily raves. 



VI. 

The oldest trees did shake and quake 
Up to their farthest shoots, 
As each skeleton pulls 
Might and main for the skulls, 
Meshed in the tangled roots. 



vn. 

You'd think it was a lashing hail 
Upon the branching eaves ; 

Or wild despoiling autumn gale 
A throttling all the leaves. 



EVA. 33 



VIII. 



And while the groups are gathering round 

From out their dim abodes, 
The woes and state of some create 

Grrim ghastly episodes. 



IX. 



A horrid shape from the path to hell 
Escaped to quench his thirst, 

For his inside scorch'd as flames do dwell 
In house pent ere they burst. 



He came to drink of the mystic Well 
Blessed by the good Saint Ann, 

Whose waters boast the purest spell 
From Tallaght to Lough Dan.^ 



XI. 

And deftly to the holy pool 
This ghastly shape forsooth 

Did speed, with shrined wave to cool 
His hellish scorching drouth. 



34 EVA. 



xn. 



He snatched tlie bowl from the holy stone, 
And dived it in the Well ; 
But yet while there flew 
His parched frame through 
A bliss from the hoped-for spell, 
A hurrying sprite 
Dashed the cup from his sight. 
And he felt o'er again pangs of hell. 



XIII. 

Oh could he but drink of the shriving wave, 

'Twould give him the freedom of soul 
To think of a heav'n ; his body 'twould save 
From the torturing pangs of a hell-bound grave 
He snatches again at the bowl. 



XIV. 

Is it Saint Ann ? or a guarding band i 
Or hath he a soul conscience-barred ? 

Again the cup from his flaming hand 
Is dashed by some unseen guard — 



EVA. 35 

XV. 

And a voice, like the rending of great forest oaks, 

Begat on his ear, with a yell. 
The sentence of Fate — "Hence slave to your 
state 

And your purgatorial cell." 



XVI. 

He shrunk aback, as his head had been 
Clove with Saint Peter's key, 

And he durst not look, for bell and book 
Had told him where he would be. 



xvn. 

And a group kept watching a tomb in the aisle. 
And they grinned a wrathful, vengeful smile. 
In wait for its inmate's skull ; 
For he was a lord, 
Whose only word 
Was of hate to the poor, 
And death to the boor 
Who made not his door 
And halls with venison full ; 



36 



xvm. 



And oft had this baron been known to brag, 
The number of vassals he clove with his mace ; 

And he took less delight racing after the stag, 
Than he did in staying the human race. 



XIX. 

And one yelled forth a merry stave, 
A hundred choruss'd the verse ; 
And from under a cowl, 
A relentless jowl 
Mumbled a hopeful curse. 



XX. 

And one whose flesh was half decayed 
Poured forth a troublous groan, 

Which shook the slime from his wormy side, 
And bared it to the bone. 



. XXI. 

Some had on cerements gray, which flapped 
As loose sails on the spars of a ship ; 

And some, half-rotted on what they wrapped, 
Were as cobwebs caught on a chip. 



EVA. 37 

xxn. 

One looked at her tomb as at her glass, 
Ne'er doubting herself 'twould bear, 

But she yelled her joj 

At the fond foul lie 
Her husband had sculptured there. 

xxm. 

And calling a troupe of like wild wives, 

She bade them see themselves — 
All scampered away as they did in their lives — 

A pack of mad vain elves. 

XXIV. 

And they laughed, did this brood of wanton 
wives. 
At their sculptured acts, and cried — 
" Ho ! ho ! for those who have led good lives. 
They'll have no surprise when they've died." 

XXV. 

And as the "Yes" from Eva's mouth 

Proclaimed young Kevin's bride, 
All swirled as though the grapes of the South 

Were gurgling their skulls inside. 



38 EVA. 



XXVI. 



And a jolly mob around the pair 

Prankt madly in a reel, 
And chattered, and bowed, and flattered aloud, 

The lovers with devilish zeal. 



xxvn. 



But lovers' eyes, though ope are blind. 

And lovers' ears are deaf; 
'Tis but in loving lovers find 

Love's grief or love's relief. 



xxvrn. 

Young Kevin clasped the maid again, 
The embrace was soft and sweet ; 

The bubbling love of the wooers twain, 
At parting was as they'd meet. 



XXIX. 

And as love'-s tender stupor sheds 
Its filmy mask, they thought 

The air was dotted with strange heads, 
And with strange noises fraught. 



EVA. 39 



XXX. 



Their skinny digits clasping fast, 
The mouldy dancers spin 

Swiftly past — their skulls are cast 
Into one circling grin. 



XXXI. 

The fluttering Eva nestled close 

Unto her Kevin's breast, — 
They soothed the sudden fears that rose, 

By being both caressed. 



XXXII. 

" The noise" — it was the weary breeze, 

Or Dodder's plaining tones : 
^* The faces" — moonshine through the trees 

Upon the quaint old stones. 



XXXIII. 

And wilder, swifter speed the wraiths, 

As on a whirlpool leaves, 
Until they fade, and the speering maid 

Feels she herself deceives. 



40 EVA. 



XXXIV. 



The moon breaks from her camp of clouds, 
And roams the clear expanse ; 

The ghosts glide into their slimy shrouds, 
Tired \\'ith the trysting dance. 



EVA. 41 



PART THIRD 



The moon was taking her highest roll, 
And the light from her regnant head, 

Enwrapped the stars, like a mighty scroll, 
With eternity's language spread. 



n. 

The crystal blue of the ambient sky, 
The crystal light of the moon. 

The crystal note of the black-bird nigh, 
Makes echo a crystal tune. 



m. 

The stars like strings of a heavenly lyre, 

Swept by the hands of Night, 

Fill with joy the cathedral choir; 

And echo is turned to light. 
4* 



42 EVA. 



IV. 



And down the moonlight flutes the air, 
Each beam a choral column ; 

And earth's calm but responsive prayer 
Blends in the midnio;ht solemn. 



And heavenly smiles and earthly thanks 
In their descent and upward flight, 

Pass in joyed and bowed ranks 
Through night's corridors of light. 



VI. 

The wakeful crags, Kippure's broad brow 

Stand out in bright relief, 
Attendant on the moon ; and throw 

The glens in shadowed grief. 



vn. 

Scarce a stir was up in the air, 
Scarce a stir on the earth, 

Save lyrical rills from the elfin hills 
Gamb'llino; in wildsome mirth. 



EVA. 43 

vin. 
They staved and raved ad own tlie stones, 

A stop-note every pebble, 
To quiver the chant into tinkling tones 

Of a dulcet treble. 

IX. 

At the time of fair Eva's vows 

To Kevin's love-lit power. 
The elfin queen her courtiers did rouse 

To meet over Alyagower. 

X. 

Bustling, yet noiseless, came along 

The elves from midnight sprees, 
Lowly but sweet as ever was song 

They lilted their gathering glees : 
So genial the flow, so num'rous the throng, 

It was as a perfumed breeze — 
Or, like a forethought of Zephyr's song, 

Balmy, without the breeze. 

XI. 

As diamond thoughts in quaint bard's brain. 

This aeriel world 'gan float ; 
And linked, as the gems of a fountain rain 

By the mist with a dewy note. 



44 EVA. 



xn. 



A haze of sound enwrapped the elves 
As the mist o'er a wayward stream ; 

They must have thought, the imps themselves. 
They were in an elfin dream. 



xm. 



And hither they come, so various dight- 
So brilliant their guises were, 

It was as a sudden May that night. 
And they the flow'rs o' the air. 



XIV. 



Spirit of Heath and Daisy-dew, 

And tiny Blue-bell first. 
Bounding came, with the elfin crew, 

That followed in a bm-st. 



XV. 



Roney-suckle and Primrose-tip, 

Arm in arm, I wist — 
And Evening-sigh and Tulip-lip, 

And the Fog-sprite, Dodder-mist : 



EVA. 45 

XVI. 

Jessamine-breath and Woodbine-brow, 

Blessing each other's way. 
And Honey-tongue and Folks-gloveJ now, 

And many a valley fay : 



xvn. 

The scarlet Dragon's-head came up, 

And Morning-glory too, 
Bearing a monstrous purple cup 

Gleamiug with nectrous dew : 



xvin. 

And Apple-bloom so lustrous white, 

Like little bride of old ; 
And Dandelion, like ancient king, 

With collar of yellow gold : 



XIX. 

And from the Dodder's coolest vale 
The Brook-elf, braw and stout, 

In armor made of a silver scale 
Dropped from a river trout : 



46 EVA. 

XX. 

The imp of glens, wild Thatchet-tliom, 
Eeckless, rollicking sprite, 

Came puffing, like a November morn 
Hunted by autumn night : 



XXI. 

The Moon-elf with a bright'ning eye, 
And never a wink, came in ; 

He trimm'd the starry lamps on high, 
And shaded the w^ays of sin. 



XXII. 

And Poppy-stem with night-cap red, 

A drowsy pace did take ; 
But Moon-elf kicked and Thatchet pricked 

The imp to keep him awake. 



xxin. 

And hosts of elfin chiefs appeared 

Of marvellous renown. 
And fairy seannachies^with beards 

Of silver thistle-down. 



EVA. 47 

XX TV. 

Oh, myriads came, of goblin fame, 

From glen-embower'd ways. 
Where cascades keep the hills from sleep, 

In witching Wicklow's praise ; 
From Dodder's nooks, and brawling brooks. 

And Liifey's fairy braes. 

XXV. 

They came to a tower, 'tween heav'n and earth, 

Built in the dewy air ; 
The dreamliest space that fanciful mirth 

Could deem for a court so rare. 

XXVI. 

They carried a cloud away up to the moon 

And trailed it across the light. 
So the beam from beiow, and the beam from aboon, 

Made a floor and a ceiling bright. 

xxvn. 
And they sprent the floor with gathered dews 
Which shone like a pavement of gems, 
And arch'd columns made 
Of the clear cascade. 
Caught ere it broke in diadems. 



48 EVA. 

XXVIII. 

From quarried mines of perfume, the walls 
The casement of spider's web, quaint, 
And the toiling stars 
Snatch a peep through the bars. 
And pale at their own restraint. 

XXIX. 

And o'er the throne of Cleena the queen, 
In the nave of this fairj pile, 
A tulip leaf rained 
Its hues, like the stained 
Glass saints in cathedral aisle. 

XXX. 

Thus met, the queen with an airy tongue. 
Like a sweet voice heard in a dream, 

Half cadenced her will, half liltinglj sung. 
Yet singing it only did seem. 

XXXI. 

Oh, her's was the sweetest. 
Richest, completest, 
Most musical, magic, and dearest, 
M}'stic and lowly. 
Swelling but slowly, 
The warmest of voices, and clearest ! 



EVA. 49 

xxxn. 

" Sisters and brothers — subjects all, 

From Tallaght to Kippiire, 
From tbe dusky valleys, 
"Where the sunset rallies. 
All our gallant armies to my evening call— 
From the heathy hill-side, 
From the dreamy rill-side, 
From the spray entrancing. 
In the star-light glancing. 
O'er the rocky barriers in the Dodder's way,^ 
Ye, my loved and loving. 
Ye, the spry and roving, 
Ye, that know a living dead to things of clay, 
Ye, from Tallaght's meadows. 

To the bleak Kippure, 
Ye, I want — my shadows ! 

A maiden to secure. 



xxxm. 

" Cluricauns from haunted Brake, 

Fays of Alyagower, 

IVe a maid from earth to take 

"Worthy fairy power. 
5 



50 EVA. 



XXXIV. 



" Wild elves from the witch'd Comaun, 
Whose broad brow the thunder mocks, 
And all ye that wraithe Glancree, 

Or guard the lonely haunted Louglis, — ^ 



XXXV. 



" Where the eagle mountain stands 
O'er the dismal wave below ; 
Like man's suicidal thought 

Brooding flight from earthly wo : 



XXXVI. 

" There is a maid of mildest mien, 
But radiant in its mildness ! 
Loving and loved in the bounds atween, 
Where we hold our wildness." 



XXXVII. 

"I saw — I spied (and laughed in pride), 
As I skipt o'er yon ruin," 
Said Thatchet-thorn, holding his side, 
" Twain Gaffers there a wooin'." 



EVA. 51 



XXXVIII. 



" Ha ! ha ! Oh Berry," Thatchet scritched, 
" An elf with hum-drum twisting 
The other dainty hojden witched, 
And she said, ' No resisting !' 



XXXIX. 

" I feth it was a mouthful speck, 
I wiss to see them" — 

"Hold sir, 
Chain thy tongue or I'll instant wreck 
Thy chine, for being bold, sir." 

XL. 

Thatchet sneak'd off in the crowd 

Under the wing of a fly. 
And he tickled the fly's kind shroud, 

For tears came in laughter's eye. 

XLT. 

" As I gamboll'd and caught the dew," 
Quo' the Queen, — " to deck our halls, 
The prancing gnats my chariot drew 
Above yon ivied walls. 



52 EVA. 

XLII. 

" oil, Lilj-tint ! Oh, Honey-tongue ! 
Such a face and form — so airy, 
As were those ruins old among ! 
She should have been a fairy. 



XLTII. 

" And by her side was a hend youth, who 
Was pleading love distressing. 
And with harmonious plaining, too. 
He charmed the maid's caressing. 



XLIV. 

She is too fair for mortal man. 
Too bright for earthly life. 

More formed for elfin joyaunce than 
Queen of a heart-ache strife." 



XLV. 

(" An' ay, besides," cried Thatchet-thorn, 
" 'Twill wrath the youth most drearily, 
For which I'd spree ten moons to see — 
An' that I would most cheerily !") 



EVA. 53 

XLVI. 

'' We must save her ! we must have her, 
Ere tlie dews of evening fall, 
On to-morrow, and I'll borrow 
All jour freaks to aid my call." 

"Ho! ho!" yell'd, merrily, Thatehet. 

XLvn. 
" We must save her ! we must have her. 
Ere the lovers meet again. 
And we'll bring her, and we'll sing her 
Fairy songs of soothing strain." 

" I fecks we will !" quo' Thatehet. 

XLvin. 
" And we'll charm her, but not harm her. 
To forget all ties of earth ; 
For we'll spell-bind, ay, and well bind 
All our arts to cause her mirth." 

"An' I'm your man !" quo' Thatehet. 

XLIX. 

"We, you Thatchet-thorn commission— 

Thatehet list, you wayward wight — 

To bethink and twist our wish on 

Witching this young maiden bright. 
5* 



EVA. 
L. 

Good lack, ah me ! ho, ho ! — What now ?" ' 
Laughed Thatchet — ''Thafs your measure !" 

And he smoothed a wrinkle on old Time's brow 
With a loud smack of pleasure. 



LI. 

The wily, revelling devil, Thorn, 
(Swung wild in a cobweb's loop ; 

A rakish imp as ever was born, 
On the spider he sat with a " Whoop 1" 



Ln. 

" All the spreethogue- elves ye ken. 
From Lough Bray to Kill-tipper, 
Shall follow Thatchet, through fen and glen, 
To aid the imp to clip her." 



Lm. 

Thatchet in glee, was tumbling round, 

The cap of a queen-bee's knee ; 
So joyous was he to be crown'd, 
Leading a prank in fairy ground, 
And scritched right gleefully ! 



EVA. 55 

LIV. 

" Hip, do dun ! 
'Tis said — slie's won ! 
I'll smother mj feet in the tliistle-down, 

Or skate on the snail's bright track, 
Or, I'll hide in the pond'rous skin-cloak, brown. 

Flayed from the wood-mouse' back ! 
Or, I'll straddle on spider's crup, as he weaves 

In the nave of yon ruin his thread — 
Or, I'll lie in amidst of two wild mint leaves, 
And roll to a noon-eyed bed. 

I'll watch her — I'll catch her — 

I will ! I will ! 
Through alley or valley, 
In bower or hill ! 
I see her ! I feel her ! I have her ! ha, ha !" 
And he sprang at his joyous note. 
And he laughed, till all doubt 
Such a loud elfin's shout 
Leaped from an elfin throat. 

LV. 

"Ha! ha!" — laughed he, as he woke the liglit 
Of a star that slept on the pavement, 
And he tumbled him round 
To a jocular sound, 
Regardless of court behavement. 



56 EVA. 



LVI. 

" Hej, in the ruin, 
Lovers will be wooing, 
Little guessing, 
In caressing. 
What the elves are doing. 



" Hey, in the even, 
Lovers will be grieving. 

Little knowing 

What is growing 
For their hearts' deceiving. 

" Bj the set of sun 
To-morrow, she's won ! 

" For o'er the bog. 
Or through the fog. 
Under the hill, 
Over the rill, 
In the moonlight, 
Or the noonlight, 
Bat's wing riding, 
Owl's beak chiding. 
On Pooka prancing. 
Or star-light dancing. 



EVA. 67 

Whatever je wot 
On earth, or be not, 
Eft-soon that it is^ 
For Thatchet, I wis, 
Is the sprite that is here 
To eke whatever ye ken ! 
For aught be it murky, or yea be it clear— 

I'm slave to the Queen o' the glen ! 
Be it done in a moon's or sun's career, 
I'm slave to the Queen o' the glen !" 

Lvn. 

" Hail to our Cleena, Queen o' the glen," 
Shouted the elves and fairy land then, 
Up took the echo, and out-sped again — 

" Hail to our Cleena, Queen o' the glen." 



I 



EVA. 59 



PART FOURTH 



The night is gone, the morning past, 
And that noon dead forever ; 

And evening comes, like a shadow cast, 
Time's brighter tints to sever. 



n. 

An evening like the jester one, 
A calm and balmy eve. 

Like nmi, afraid that sighing tone 
Would make her bosom heave. 



in. 

All was still as a sleeping fair, 
Placid with heav'nly dreaming, 

Whose visions of bliss to her fancy were 
Double their actual seeming. 



60 EVA. 

IV. 

The gentle Eva fortli had sped, 
To meet her idoU'd lover ; 

The daisy bent not beneath her tread, 
As Innocence did above her. 



Two genial faces-under-a-hood, 
Drinking the welcome dew, 

Seemed, in a joy of brotherhood, 
Toasting her beauty too. 



VI. 

The Cowslip and the Buttercup, 

They bowed a silent bliss, 
And Forget-me-not, in the lonely spot, 

Stole from the sod a kiss. 



vn. 

Fond memory's emblatic elf. 

He noted the passing one. 
And kissed, in lieu the charmer's self, 

The ground she trod upon. 



EVA. 61 

vm. 

And thus the plants, in each other's joy, 

Show how they felt for hers, 
And kissed once more, as she tript o'er, 

With the zeal of worshippers ! 

IX. 

The meadow-sweet waved like a bridal plume ; 
And the streamlet by the path 

Kept on a wild pace. 

To be sunn'd by her face. 
Such radiance its beauty hath. 



Now was her heart a brimful cup, 
With Love's delicious presence. 

And thoughts of Kevin bubbled up 
To the top of the sparkling essence. 



XI. 

Her bearing bright, her footstep light 

As a May-wafted feather; 
She seemed a humanized delight, 

As skipt she o'er the heather. 



62 EVA. 



XII. 



And oh, why should she not present 

Incarnate love and rapture ? 
Loving and loved — with two joys sprent, 

Yielding, and making a capture ! 



XIII. 



'Tis only thus that true Love's years 

Roll free of pain and sin — 
The sin of doubt : who happy wears 

Love's crown, must yield to win. 

XIV. 

And oh ! Heaven help the loving heart 
That meets no love in turn, 

And send its light, to save from blight 
That passion-bursting um. 

XV. 

The heart that links unto a heart, 

Unknowing if it beats. 
May never find, its once clear mind, 

And peace it never meets — 
Earth has no future for its kind ; 

Ko past, but killing sweets. 



EVA. 63 



XVI. 



But Eva, blessing in her love, 

Was bless'd in her adorer ; 
The present seem'd but as Peter's gate 

To the heavenly fate before her. 



XVII. 



As moved she down the hilly side. 
Like blossom weather-wafted, 

Crowning the air with double pride 
Of fragrance then engrafted — 



XVIII. 



A charming strain falls on her ear, 

A thrilling measure 'tis, 
And tender, too. She stay'd to hear- 

" Ah ! yes, 'tis surely his ! 



XIX. 



" Ah, yes— it must be Kevin's harp ! 
It is that love-lorn strain 
He often plays." She eager stays 
To catch the loved refrain. 



64 EVA. 



XX. 



And yet she stays : adown her head 
Low bent, as joyed she grew, 

And hands upraised, as though they said- 
" Hush, birds, and listen too !" 



xxr. 



The strain swept on — sweet harmony- 
The maiden soul held still. 

As though each magic symphony 
Could chain or free at will. 



XXII. 



" [Row shall I give my love surprise !" 
And round she sprang in glee ; 
But nothing there stood proof her eyes. 
And wonder-struck was she. 



XXIII. 



"Wonder struck was the maiden young. 

At her deceit of ee ; 
But a voice yet sung, and a harp still rung, 

And stil] the strain hears she. 



EVA. 05 



XXIV. 



Yea, still its ripples lave her ears, 
More dulcet than before, 

And every wave of sound she hears 
Is met by an eager shore. 



XXV. 



Now plaintive rose the witching lay, 
And now a subdued splendor 

Trids the dulcet anguish through, 
So passionately tender : 



XXVI. 



And now a voice of sadness ponrs 

Its soul upon the air ; 
While the maiden stays as one delays 

On last words of a prayer. 



(.1.) 

Where is my darling — 
Oh, where is her shadow? 
Is she in the meadow, 

Singing with the starhng? 



66 EVA. 



Is she by the river ? — 
Is she mid the trees ? — 

Ah ! my heart is ever 
Searching her and ease. 



(n.) 

I've heard the starling, 
I've been in the meadow, 
But saw not the shadow 
Of Eva my darling. 
She's not by the water — 

She's not in the wood — 
Thro' the trees I've sought her, 
And down by the flood. 



(m.) 

I told the starling 

To sing out my maiden ; 
Robin, too, is laden. 
With news for my darling; 
And the little sparrow 

That chirps in the thatch, 
And swallow, fleet as arrow, 
Go my love to catch. 



EVA. 67 

(IV.) 

I told tlie starling, 

Sparrow, and the swallow, 
Ere they went to follow. 
Where Td meet my darling : 
E'ot in fields of clover, 
^Neither in the bower, 
!N'or by rushing rover, 
But here^ at this hour. 

XXVII. 

" I^ow shall I give my love surprise !" 
And round she tript in glee ; 
But nothing there stood proof her eyes. 
And wonder struck was she. 

XXVIII. 

But still the air with song is fraught, 

Making sweet the gloaming ; 
'Tis plain the singer's anxious thought 

But echoes to his roaming. 

XXIX. 

^^Not infields of clover, 
Neither in the tower, 
Nor hy rushing rover, 
But here, at this hourP 



68 EVA. 



XXX. 



Now Eva deftly stole along — 
Softly crept the maiden — 

Aside the brake, tlie shrubs among, 
Her breath love-ful laden. 



XXXI. 

Scarcely breathing crept she, listening — 
Catching whence the sounds arose ; 

Her love-laughing eyes were glistening. 
At the sight they will disclose. 

xxxn. 

Her thoughts were laughing amongst them- 
selves — 

To steal so — such a treat ! 
Little thought she, the airy elves . 

Were laughing at Love's defeat. 

XXXIII. 

Little she dreamt that an elfin harp, 
Tuned to a mortal ear, 
Was pilf 'ring the store. 
At the sill of Love's door, 
And making the door a bier. 



EVA. 09 



XXXIV. 



^^Not infields of clover^ 
Neither in the hower^ 
Nor hy rushing rover ^ 
But here, at this hou/r,''^ 



XXXV. 



More sorrowful the voice became. 
In grief at her not coming ; 

Now near it wails, in a tone of blame, 
Now at a distance humming. 



XXXVI. 

Behind her once it moaned in pain, 
And then it crooned before her ; 

By her side, anon, as though the strain 
Would weave a madness o'er her. 



XXXVII. 

On she sprang, with Hope's wild strength — 

Bound she trod the strain : 
To right trod she — to left trod she, 

And trod all o'er again. 



70 EVA. 



XXXVIII. 



Till wearied out, her tender frame, 

Bj longing hope deferred, 
She sank down on the spot — the same 

Where first the tune she heard. 



XXXIX. 

As though her mother Earth would bear 

Some comfort to her dearth, 
As Indian catches in his ear. 
The presence of some mortal near, 
Bj listening to the earth. 



XL. 

And thoughts rose up within her lips, 
To tell what anguish wrung 

Her heart, but fell, as fountain drips, 
Back to whence thej sprung. 

XLI. 

For beat her heart so piteously, 
No word could dare essay, 

To fill its grief, or sorrow dree. 
Or soothe its woes awaj. 



EVA. tl 



XLH. 



And as she lay, the song once more 
Burst in upon her swoon, 

As the mystic fire that revels o'er 
The dismal-faced lagoon : 



xLm. 

"ir<?^ infields of clover^ 

Neither in the hower^ 
Nor hy rushing rover, 
But here^ at this hourP 



XLIV. 

And as bright morning bursts from night, 
Sweet words escaped her gloom — 

"And I am here, my Kevin dear, 
I'm thine unto the tomb." 



XLV. 

Her thought so spread her lifeless form. 

It shook her till she wake ; 
And lo ! as sun o'er March cloud dun, 

Her love bounds o'er the brake. 



72 EVA. 

XL VI. 

And quickly raised was Eva fair, 

Unto his sheltering heart ; 
And nestling there, as thought in speech- 
The heaven she had pined to reach — 

She prayed they'd "never part." 

XLvn. 

" And are you mine ?" 

" Thine, only thine I 
Ay, darling youth, forever ! 
The earth holds not, so fair a lot. 
That couJd me from thee sever !" 



XLvm. 

" Oh, speak on yet — ^my Eva, yet — 

Why should such sun-thoughts dally :" 
" I am thine," she cried, " while the sky is blue, 
Or the Dodder its Glan-nis-mole sings through ; 
While the seasons roll, and the loving birds 
Warble to each their aerial words ! 
Though death should come, my love still true. 
As the tree to the sod from which it grew — 
While those darling hills — those elf-bound hills. 
Embrace with calm shadows their offspring rills. 



EVA. 73 



Or Kippure, like an aged parent fills 
The throne of state. 
With pride elate, 
And fatherly views the valley I" 



XLIX. 

" Mine — onhj mine ?" 

" Forever thine !" 

And she clung around the youth 
With the fervor which betrays itself, 

Supporting a woman's truth. 



L. 

He kissed her, and excess of joy 

So wrought, when strength had gone, 

She felt that dizziness which doubts 
The fact one gazes on. 



LI. 

She felt as lifted from the sod 
Into his dear embrace — 

But were it clouds her Kevin trod. 
She'd tread the self-same place. 



74 TIVA. 



Ln. 



Half waking from her swoon of heart, 

She feels her in the air, 
Mid myrial crowds that nimbly part, 

To make her pathway there. 



LHI. 



Around, the sky — ^below, dim void — 

And np she's onward driven : 
'Tis a dream, like those her childhood enjoyed- 

Dreaming of going to heaven. 



LIV. 



But round quaint little spectres flit. 
Like motes in her bright splendor ; 

With jocund songs and gleeful wit. 
And fragile shapes so tender. 



LV. 



And hither they run, and thither they run, 
In vain their glee to smother ; 

And air looked a moving mine of gems. 
As they pelt dew at each other. 



EVA. 75 

LVI. 

She clasped her arms about the youth, 

To feel had she been sleeping, 
Full pure in confidence and truth, 

Of safety in his keeping. 

Lvn. 
'Tis surely all some witching dream. 

Else her eyes need heart's upbraiding, 
For Kevin, like tlie mist on stream. 

From her wild clasp is fading : 

Lvin. 

As shadow deftly fades away, 

When light approaches clearer, 
Her opening gaze the maid betrays — 

'No youthful Kevin's near her. 

LIX. 

The shape she prest to her maiden breast 

Has dwindled like a flower. 
And left but a wizened, withered stem — 
She sees the elves — she has heard of them. 
Her whole life crowds in a frantic thought, 
And crushes her as the truth is caught : 



Y6 EVA. 

" Oh, liope belied — oh, Love," she cried, 
" I have madly leased my soul from you, 
"While the Dodder runs and the sky is blue !" 
And swooned in the elfin power. 



LX. 

And wildly laughed imp Thatchet then — 

He roaring and running by fits. 
Till e'en the elf-train, thought again and again 

He'd lose his elfin wits. 



LXI. 

Still alluring, still she follows 
In the love-struck elfin trance. 

Far beyond the cloudy hollows, 
To where vagrant planets dance. 



Lxn. 

Once they rested high in the blue, 
To school their wondering care ; 

And Time a lengthy cobweb threw, 
To teach her to walk the air. 



EVA. 77 



Lxni. 



In vast circles gathering round her, 
As the systems round the sun, 

Endless splendors hold, astound her — 
Still beginning, never done. 



Lxrs^ 



Moving like vast seas of brilliants, 
Each contributing its light 

To the forming of a circle. 
That shuts out forever ISTight. 



LXV. 



Still revolving, glittering onward, 
High thej chant a fairy glee. 

As they pass, the echo, gone-ward, 
Answers to her — " Who are ye ?" 



We are Faeries — ^gleesome Faeries ! 

From the 'haunted raths below ; 
We are Faeries — tricksy Faeries, 

From the glistening peaks of snow, 

7* 



78 EVA. 

From tlie far hills to the valley, 
From the valley to the shore, 
And from shore to shore we rally, 
IsTever less, and evermore ! 
From the far light 

Of Aurora, 
From the star-light 

To the earth — 
From the sprye-lands 

Of rich Flora, 
To the sky-lands, 
We hold mirth ! 

(n.) 
We may caper on the sunbeam. 

Or rest behind the moon. 
When the pleasaunce of our night-dream 

Ushers in a lazy noon ; 
We raise a monument of dew. 
Distilled from aerial flowers, 
And joys like these are waiting you, 
And every charm that's ours. 
From the icebergs 

Of the Yikings — 
From the spice-bergs 
Of the East— 



EVA. 79 

To the Prairies, 

Are the likings, 
For the Faeries' 

Glorious feast ! 

(m.) 

We may stretch a bridge from pole to pole, 

Wing earth, and all that's in it. 
Over the spheres, or round we can roll. 

Or pass through in a minute. 
We are Faeries — happy Faeries ! 

Giddy, tinted shades of dew : 
Whose ever-bursting joy ne'er varies, 
But to double — so shall you ! 
From the prismal 
Sun-light glory, 
To the dismal 

Caves of earth — 
From the Flood-god's 

Saga's hoary. 
To the Wood-gods, 
Give us mirth ! 
We are Faeries — happy Faeries, 

Kings of earth and sea and blue ; 
Whose ever-bursting joy ne'er varies, 
But to double — so shall you ! 



80 EVA. 



LXVI. 



" I fecks jou will," quo' Tbatchet. " True ! 
And if you best have a mate 
Like me," and he kissed young Daisy-dew, 
Who dealt him a box on the pate. 



Lxvn. 

Eva was listless of all earth, 

Enchanting her promised dower ; 

And her eyes are tinct with elfin dew, 
To give her sight elfin power. 



Lxvin. 

And soon with the rites of Elfin Land 
They shrive the maid from clay ; 

And she, in the joy of the fairy band, 
Is not less gay than they. 



LXIX. 

She revels along as though she ne'er 

Was born out o' the blue. 
And floats athrough the loving air. 

Scarce knowing she passes through. 



EVA. 81 

LXX. 

And joyously down the azure space, 
They sweep like a stellar shower, 

To meet the Queen at the gathering place, 
By the Brocken o'er Alyagower. 



EVA. 83 



PART FIFTH. 



Young Kevin went to tlie ruin gray. 

Quilted in ivy green, 
Where yestere'en his love did pray, 

And Eva's had plighted been. 



n. 

The young oak branches sighing, bow'd, 
The weird yew wept aghast, , 

And the ivy leaves, a clustering crowd. 
Shivered as he passed. 



in. 



The sad old ruin lonely stood, 

A solemn sight to see, 
Like one who suffering for his love, 

Longs from the earth to flee. 



84 EVA. 

IV. 

Yet there it stood mid the solitude, 
And the wave-like graves so dim, 

A beacon rock midst the ghostlj flock, 
Beloved imto him. 



V. 

For to him it brought thoughts of love, 

Of purpose high and pure : 
He thankful felt to heaven above, 

And on the earth secure. 



VL 

Beneath its calm and holy shade, 
His kindling heart had burned. 

And blazed, and spread, until the maid 
Its every glow returned. 



vn. 

And who, though frosted o'er by Time, 

Or varied fortune, can 
Forget the place, where woman's grace 

First made him feel a man. 



EVA. 85 

VIII. 

What heart that does not hold the scene, 

As heaven's foretaste here ; 
The purest, best, that eyes caressed ! 

Beyond all others, dear ? 



IX. 

God pity him whose peevish fate. 
Or thoughtless, callous ways. 

Cannot with such remembrance mate 
Sweet comfort, bliss, and praise. 



And can we wonder Kevin thrilled 
With feelings strangely new. 

Where Eva's yearning bounty filled 
The hopes that burned him through. 



xi. 

The echoes of her blessed voice 
In spreading sounds still seethed 

Around the spot, and the youth's heart caught 
So tightly, he scarce breathed : 



86 EVA. 

xn. 

Lest with the breathing hcj might fail 

To catch each fancied tone, 
That bade him a life-pathway hew, 
Wide and bright enough for two, 
JN^or henceforth be alone. 



xni. 

The scene, the sounds, the hopes did span 

The youth ; till past control 
Their mingling pleasures over-ran, 

The chalice of his soul ; 



XIV. 

And burst forth into frenzied speech 
Which he could not suppress : 

But what are words to teach, or reach 
The wants of happiness ? 



XV. 

" Ah, happy me ! O chosen one, 
Thy fasting eyes prepare. 
To feast their hungry glances on 
Thy life-absorbing fair ! 



EVA. 87 



XVI. 



" Ah, liappy me ! O proudest one ! 
Eestrain thy throbbing side : 
It swells amain with radiant pain 
Till comes thy radiant bride." 



xvn. 



Ah, well-a-daj, and wo is me, 
That hath this tale to tell : 

Would that the elves had left me free 
To break the fairy spell. 



xvrn. 

The while young Kevin Dhu devoured 

His brain with hopeful bliss ; 
The gloaming fled, by night o'erj)owered, 
And the long grass on the dim graves cowered 

Beneath the dew's cold kiss. 



XIX. 

A shaking off love's lethargy, 
That captive held each Hmb, 

The doubts and tears, of passion's fears, 
In a torrent burst o'er him. 



88 EVA. 



XX. 



He wandered up, lie wandered down, 

He counted every tomb ; 
They seemed with a ghoulish pith 

But mimicking his doom. 



XXI. 



Which way he turned — each tomb he read, 

Held nothing to his eye. 
Save these huge hopeless words of dread — 

" Sacred to Memory." 



XXII. 

With startling apathy he took. 
His eyes from death and clay, 

And up into the heavens did look, 
For some heart-easing ray. 



xxni. 

But as to chill his fibres through. 
And warn his aching sight, 

A black cloud, like a hand, came o'er 
And hid the eye of night. 



EVA. 89 



XXIV. 



The wearj, sad, suggestive tombs, 
The black and dreary cloud. 

The trees like beck'ning funeral plumes, 
The ivy like a shroud ; 



XXV. 

The Dodder's cloud-affrighted waves, 

A moaning, stealthily past. 
The winds that wail down the crooked vale 

And biarst into gusts at last : 



XXVI. 



Conveyed to him a weakening sense 

Of desolation near, 
Till he scarce could gasp 'neath the icy grasp 

That crushed his heart with fear. 



XX vn. 



He thought he heard upon the air, 

Around the ruin dim, 
Strange voices mutter as in prayer, 

And say — " God pity him." 



90 EVA. 



xxvm. 



His ejes were fraught with helplc'Ss power, 

Into the dark saw he ; 
And he read as plain as at noonday hour — 

" Sacred to Memory." 



XXIX. 



The Cross, as oae with outstretched arms 
And head to heaven, did seem 

To tell him that 'gainst charms and harms 
Of earth it was supreme. 



XXX. 



Upon the youth's bleak ashen heart 
This holy thought did move 

The embers, till there leapt apart 
The flames of Faith and Love. 



The dark distempers of his brain 
Before his Faith rushed out — 
" Oh, dearest love, she'll come again. 
Why — why should I e'er doubt." 



EVA. 91 

xxxn. 

" To-morrow I will clasp my fair 
More bright than mountain fay !" 
The sky became more overcast, 
He shivering Saint Anne's Well past, 
The winds grew wild, more black the sky, 
And the shaggy trees, as he went by. 
In mournful dirges called him back ; 
But he held on his lonely track, 
Sighing, saying, '' Fairest fair, 
More bright than mountain fay !" 
And he took himself, though loth to part. 
From the spot so dear to his hopes and heart. 
And homeward bent his way. 

xxxm. 
Days, and weeks, and months, and years, 

Passed over, and the youth 
Still paced the place of love and tears. 

Where he had pledged his troth. 

xxxrv. 
He there might pace till Judgment-day, 

Pace he might for ever, 
For her he sought in the ruin gray, 

Again on earth stood never. 



92 EVA. 



XXXV. 



Beneath the Cross in that ruin gray, 
The tombs right fronting where 

His Eva sat, his manhood's day 
Passed, talking to the air. 



XXXVI. 

And oft he played his harp and sung 
The rhymes he used to sing, 

And oft her name was on his tongue 
In senseless wandering. 



XXXVII. 

And when at deep sun-set he played 

Some plaintive air she loved, 
He thought the rocks and woods betrayed 

A feeling, and were moved. 



xxxvni. 

The hills seemed leaving the dreary posts 

They had sentinelled for ages. 
And the ravines aroused their minstrel hosts 

To march with their chiefs and sages. 



EVA. 93 



XXXIX. 



To liim the vales more wide did gape, 
Tlie Dodder dull had grown, 

All things seemed longing to escape 
From him, save the Cross alone. 



XL. 



And Kevin at its base grown old, 
A life of calm wo passed, 

To it he clung, his silent, strong, 
And true friend to the last. 



XLI. 

Of years threescore, and more, liad fled 
Since he with jov nigh dumb, 

Went forth to meet his Eva sweet 
And still, he thinks, she'll come. 



XLII 

It is a glorious close of day : 
In light and shade the rills 

Gleam fondly in the ruddy ray, 
That nears the western hills. 



94 EVA. 



XLIII. 



In smiles of light, tlie heath, the rocks, 
Slantwise the sun-heam kissed. 

And rested on old Kevin's locks 
Of tangled silver mist. 



XLIV. 

Anticipating twilight's frown, 
It came hy Mercy led, 

And wove a siipra-mortal crown 
Around old Kevin's head. 



XLV. 

His spectral fingers o'er the strings 

In trembling labor went ; 
The minstrel and the minstrel's wings 

Of song, are nearly spent. 



XL VI. 

Beneath the friendly Cross his soul's 
Dear cause he whisp'ring pour'd ; 

But sighs like his are organ rolls 
To the ear of Mercy's Lord ! 



EVA. 95 



xLvn. 



As one who yearns to live alwaj, 
Eastward he turned his ejes, 

With hopes to see from the night of clay 
Eternal dawn arise ! 



XLvm. 



His night fell on him as he gazed, 

Ere the sun had wholly fled, 
And the sun-crown shone — Oh, God be praised ! 

O'er the lover- minstrel — dead. 



XLIX. 



On the spot where he love's passion di»ank, 

On the gray and wiry moss, 
And leaning on his harp, he sank 

In the shadow of the Cross. 



NOTES, 



1. "Delightful Glan-nis-mole." 

— Part I., verse xvi., p. 11. 
Glan-nis-inole, or the Vale of Thrushes, a peculiarly wild, ro- 
mantic, and picturesque valley in the Dublin mountains. Kippure, 
the highest of this range, lifts its brown head over all the neigh- 
boring hills, at the remote end of the valley. On ifc the river 
Dodder takes its rise from three springs, which join a short way 
down, and thence united, springs into the vale, and commences its 
wild and devious course. The writer tracked the river to its 
source, and explored the surrounding hills and glens twenty 
years ago. The 

" Ivy-quilted scanty ruin" 

(stanza xxiv.) then standing, was the remains of a primitive 
Christian church, on the right bank of the Dodder. On the op- 
posite bank the rugged liills and table-lands of Alyagower, Kil- 
tipper, Ball}Tiianock, and the yet more wild Castlekelly, are 
variously prominent. The " Witched Cornaun," one of the 
Dublin range, better known as the old hill of Rollinstown, and 
at present called Montpelier, lies to the northeast of Kippure 
As suggested by the name, Glan-nis-mole was famous for thrushes, 
and has been distinguished as the scene of some poems attributed 
to Ossian. The title of one of these is, " The Lay of the Tall 
\Voman from beyond the Sea, or the Hunt of Glan-nis-mole." 

9 



98 NOTES. 

2. " The sunbeam is shed, through a rose-leaf, red 
On a neighboring ceanavaun." 

— Part I., verse xxxiv., p. lo. 
The ceanavaun, a wild plant, the top of which bears a sub- 
stance somewhat resembling cotton, and as white as snow. 

3. " These crosses, like great note-marks, stand 
* * « * * 

Referring us to God." 

This metaphor was suggested by J. [De Jean] Eraser's lines — 

"Tlie stars are asterisks in Ileuveii, 
Keferrij)g us to God." 

4. " His love was fierce as St. Kevin's hate." 

—Part I., p. 22. 
The legend of the persistent passion of the fair Kathleen for 
St. Kevin, and liis equally persistent abhorrence of her attention, 
even to hurling the lovely votaress into the waters of Glenda- 
lough, will be remembered by readers of Moore's Melody — " By 
that Lake whose gloomy shore," and Gerald Griffin's ballad, 
" The Fate of Cathleen." 

5. " His tongue seemed in his fingers." 

— Part I., verse Ixxiii. 
The expression of the hands, in either delight, hate, agony, or 
scorn, is most powerful. In Raphael's cartoons, especially in 
Paul Preaching at Athens, The Death of Ananias, The Sorcerer 
Struck Blind, we can see the wonderful effect of the expression 
of the fingers. They are all speaking, and in the words oi 
Shakspeare one may exclaim — 

" I see a voice !" 
The subject is too suggestive to be more than indicated in a note 



NOTES. 



99 



6. *' the mystic Well, 

Blessed by the good Saint Anne." 

— ^Part II., verse x., p. 33. 

J n a previous ballad by the writer " Saint Anne's Well" has 
h>^Mi described. A brief extract will be sufficiently explanator-, 
of the allusion in the text ; 

" The waters are clear and as pure as the soul 
Of the Saint that endowed it. Beneath a green knoll 
It peacefully slumbers in hallowed repose, 
And though always brimming, it never o'erflows ; 
For a side-long trickle leads off the blest flow, 
When its breast is too full, to the Dodder below ; 
And skirts by the little church Kilmosantan, 
Where the green ivy close the old ruin doth span, 
And clings like a lover whose constancy wages 
A war with old Time — growing fonder through ages I 
On these lonely waters the Saint left a spell ; 
Which faith have the people, and thence to the well 
They fly for its draughts ; for the power Saint Anne 
Bestowed on the spring was, that if mortal man 
Was maimed, ill, but faith had, he'd surely get ease, 
K he creep from the well to the church on his knees." 

— " Faith and Fancy," pp. 69-70. 

Its waters are deemed not less efficacious if they can be partaken 
of by a purgatorial sufferer. 

7. " Honey-tongue and Folks-glove." 

— Part III., verse xvi., p. 4o. 

Folks-glove, the fairy, or wee folk's glove. The flower c/ma 
monly called fox-glove. 



100 NOTES. 

8. " And fairy seannacliies with beards 
Of silver thistle-down." 

— Part III. verse xxiii., p. 40. 

Seannachie, an ancient historian or story-teller. 

9 " And all ve that wraithe Glancree, 

Or guard the lonely haunted Loughs." 

— Part III., verse xxxiv., p. 50. 

(tlancree, a wild and eminently romantic locality. The loughw 
alluded to are the contiguous lakes, but which are known as 
" Louirh Bray." There are two, the upper and lower. The latter 
is the more picturesque. It is wild and solitary, situated up in 
the mountains, and presents evidence warranting the belief that 
it is the crater of an extinct volcano. The fairies have great 
repute hereabouts 



A Handsome 12mo Volume, $1.00. 



Second Edition of Savage's Poems. 

FAITH AND FANCY, 

BY JOHN SAYAGE, 

AUTlIOli OF "SYBIL," A TRAGEDY. 



Notices of the Press. 

Mr. Savage betrays the workings of an ardent, poetical tempera- 
ment. He ic always in earnest, often enthusiastic, and is never at a 
lo.ss for language or imagery to express his feelings. ... He makes 
a successful appeal to the lovo of nature aiul the love of country, 
and kindles sympathy with his expression of manly and generous 
sentiment.— iV'. F. Tribune. 

Will add to Mr. Savage's reputation for brilliancy of imagination, 

sweetness of fancy, and force of diction "To an Artist" is a 

beautiful and solemn lyric, full of delicate and profound thought. 
. . . The " Washington" is the grandest and most exhaustive poem 
Tet devoted to the Father of his Country. — X. Y. Courier. 

Vigorous, patriotic, rliythmical, and many of them are nuirked 
with imaginative power. " Tiie Muster of the North" is a bold and 
striking poem, — Continental Monthly. 

There is one poem that, above all the rest, possesses a charm for 
us— that for its merits alone should insure immortality to the name 
of its author, and which we give in full, because it is intensely, en- 
tirely, and truthfully Irish in sentiment and inspiration. It is 
"Shane's Head," published many years since in the Citizen. There 
is a peculiar power and pathos observable in all the Irish poetry of 
this character, as all will remark who read such examples as the 
"Lament for O'SuUivan Beare," the "Lament for Patrick Sars- 
tield," and Davis's beautiful " Lament for Owen Koe O'Neil." All 
the best features of these are to be found in "Shane's Head," while 
9* 



102 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 

in dramatic power and faithful portrayal of the stormiest gusts of 
human passion — grief, despair, hate, and desire for revenge — it tran- 
scends them all. — Irish American. 

It does not contain a tithe of Mr. Savage's heart- utte rings in song, 
but there is sufficient here to stamp him as a poet. He has that 
eager abundance of expression, that rich affluence of language, that 
passionate sv^^elling of thought, determined to find melodious utter- 
ance, v^^hich, in union, make the poet. The grand lyric, " The 
Starry Flag," and that other spirit-swelling ballad of '61, entitled 
"The Muster of the North," which have found echoes in thousands 
of quick bosoms, lead off this collection. There are several other 
war lyrics, a magnificent Irish ballad ("Shane's Head"), and the 
poem upon Washington's portrait, which, originally published in 
Harper's Magazine^ obtained great praise at the time. The charac- 
teristics of Mr. Savage's poems are earnestness, fire, melody, truth. 
His is not a cold, phlegmatic nature, which can calmly set itself 
down to the mere making of verses — it is impulsive, eager, produc- 
tive, and will utter what it thinks. — Philadelphia Press. 

Marked by a vein of tenderness and humane cliarity that speaks 
well for the heart of the writer, and unites him at once in sympa- 
thy with his reader. We quote an instance (A Battle Prayer) which 

breathes of the Christian as well as the Soldier 

The two strongest poems in the volume are " The Starry 

Flag," and " The Muster of the North." The latter is a spirit-stir- 
ring, earnest, and admirably descriptive poem. It is a ballad of '61, 
and describes with wonderful vivacity and faithfulness, the " hurry," 
the indignation, the wild enthusiastic rush to arms, which followed 
the rebel firing upon. Fort Sumter. It is a poetical history of one 
of the most exciting incidents in the most eventful period of the na- 
tion's existence. — Watson's WeeTcly Art Journal. 

" The Dead Year" is replete with poetic imagery ; " Snow on the 

Ground" is an exquisite gem " At Niagara" is another poem 

of strength and beauty. Mr. Savage's writings pftrtake of his spirit ; 
he is an ardent lover of nature — the tiniest flower that blooms in the 
forest, or the grandest and most impressive of her monuments, 
alike inspire his poetic soul. He has a liberal nature, that blossoms 
into all human generosities at the sight of the Master's handiwork. 
Such natures make poets; they will be remembered, "growing 
fonder through ages," long after the poet's dust has mingled with 
its mother earth. — Troy Daily Times. 

Eeplete with sentiment and pregnant with that sweet philosophy 
which seems to pervade all John Savage's rhythmical productiona 
—K Y. Dispatch. 



NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 103 

Vigorous in conception, often strikingly original both in thought 
and diction, and in versification varied, but always melodious. Mr. 
Savage is indisputably a true poet. — N. Y. Atlas. 

The author exhibits a signal imaginative and verbal power — em- 
bodying the fancy in the most apposite diction " Flowers on 

my Desk," "Mina," and "Dreaming by Moonlight," are perhaps 
the three gems of the book, and invite a repeated and grateful study. 
— New Orleans Times. 

Mr. Savage inscribes his volume to the Hon. Charles P. Daly, in 
commendatory and affectionate appreciation of that gentleman's 
"generous efibrts in behalf of Letters, Science, Humanity, and Jus- 
tice"— and in the dedication lets us into the secret, doubtless, of 
the influences which inspire himself. He says that every person 
who writes poetry makes his reader the confidant of his hopes, 
woes, experiences, or sensations; for, he adds, "if he aspire at all 
to transcribe or embody the feelings which evoke or prompt human 
action, he cannot help writing largely from his own heart's blood, 
and in the hues it has taken by contact with Men, Faith, and Na- 
ture." This accounts for the subtle, sensitive, picturesque, and 
passionate character of many of the principal pieces in the work. 
They bear distinctive marks of being studious and philosophical 
observations of life and landscape, of art, men, and books, guided 
and illuminated by that insight which amounts almost to intuition, 
and gives the poetical mind its power over lesser organizations. 

The " Muster of the North" has been widely copied and quoted. 
Taking it, not as an expression of political faith, but as an historical 
photograph of what the Count De Gasparin calls the great uprising, 
it has all the characteristics of the thrilling epoch. It throbs with 
emotion and commotion from the first line to the last, and sweeps 
you breathlessly along on its bounding measure. It is difficult to 
make an extract from it, the atmosphere of concentrated action so 
surrounds the whole. It is full of scenes for a Darley to illustrate 
or an Eastman Johnson to paint. — Merchants'' Magazine. 

John Savage's book of Poems, "Faith and Fancy," which is now 
far advanced in the second edition, has met a most favorable recep- 
tion from the leading press of Ireland. The Dublin Nation devotes 
nearly a whole page to a review and many quotations. In the 
course of the article the critic says : " Of Mr. Savage's powers as a 
writer no one could doubt who had read the graphic pages of his 
"98 and '48.' The breadth and freedom of those sketches, the 
close perception of character, and the dramatic force of the whole, 
gave promise for the author, which since then he has continued to 
realize. His recent work, ' Sybil, a Tragedy,' we know only through 



104 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 

the critiques of the American press, which give it high meed of 
prai.se, and describe it as having proved a remarkable success on 
the stage. The little volume now before us consists of a number of 
poems contributed by the author to various American periodicals. 
Some of them have long been flitting about, in an anonymous, va- 
grant way, from journal to journal, brightening the ' Poet's Corners,' 
where they lit, like those gay-colored birds that give a flower pro 
tern, to every tree and shrub on which they rest; others, written 
since the outbreak of the war, and glowing with the patriotic ex- 
citement of the occasion, have received even a wider circulutinu." 
The Nation, strange to say, is lukewarm on the Union side of the 
American question, and thinks that however well Mr. Savage's Na- 
tional American lyrics " may reflect the popular enthusiasm, how- 
ever eifective they may be by the camp-fires or from the lips of re- 
cruiting-sergeants," they are of less beauty than those other com- 
positions, in which *' Ave get the more original ideas and the finer 
expressions of a 'poet born, not made.'" "The War Songs," it 
says, ''may be the more popular now in America — the others will 
live longer in the literature of the country," Among the specimens 
quoted are the " Kequiem for the Dead of the Irish Brigade," 
''Game Laws," which has also been translated in Germany with 
honorable mention, "Breasting the World," some of the " Win- 
ter Thoughts," "Niagara," in which, says the Nation, "there are 
some fine thoughts, and such a measured march of rhythm and 
gravity of expression as well befit the subject ;" " Mina, a pretty 
sketch, touched easily and brilliantly," and the stormy emotional 
ballad of " Shane's Head ;" the critic concluding with this sugges- 
tive paragraph : 

" The collection from which we have taken the foregoing pieces 
is not a large one, but poetry is not to be measured by bulk. Mr. 
Savage's writings show that he has preferred to be the author of a 
few pieces, with his own thinking in them, ratiier than give to the 
public a mass of common thoughts and common phrases, jumbled 
into rhyme. His "Faith and Fancy" will find favor with all ad- 
mirers of genuine poetry." 

The Irisliman, of the same city, gives the book a hearty welcome, 
and singles out "The Muster of the North," "God Preserve the 
Union" — " a splendid poem, now heard by many a camp fire ;" " A 
Battle Prayer" — " for its profound feeling and piety" (we gave it in 
the Art Journal) ; " The God-cliild of July"—" a beautiful birth- 
day ode;" "At Niagara" — "opening grandly and well sustained 
throughout;" and "Shane's Head," which it thinks "too popular 
to need quotation," for special mention. The Irishman is enthusi- 



NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 105 

astically on the side of the Union as against the rebellion of the 
South, and in these hearty words generalizes its appreciation of 
Mr. Savaire's literary character : 

" John Savage is already well known as an author. His ' Ninety- 
Eight and Forty-Eight' obtained considerable popularity; while 
his tragedy of Sybil acquired a degree of success that attracted the 
eulogiums not only of American but of English journals. Indeed, 
his genius seems chiefly adapted to dramatic writing, even more 
than to the lighter class of poetic productions. Into the lyrics con- 
tained in this volume the author has put his heart and soul, and 
made them instinct with vehement life. Many of them have al- 
ready become classical ; those, especially, which treat of the great 
crisis now convulsing America, have obtained popularity extensive 
as the poet's imagination. The poet sings the cause of liberty in 
America with the same sacred fervor which inspired him in Ire- 
land."— ^Fdfeo/i's Weekly Art Journal, July 23, 1864. 



In Press, Library Edition^ 

SYBIL, 

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS, 

AS REPKE8ENTED AT 

THE PRINCIPAL THEATRES OF THE UNITED STATES, BY AVONIA J0NE8, 
MATILDA HERON, AND MRS. EMMA WALLESL 



CRITICAL OPINIONS. 

"This piece was originally produced at St Louis, with Miss Avonfa Jones as 
the heroine, and successfully played by her for over sixty nights during that 
season, in Louisville, Chicago, Cincinnati, Richmond. New Orleans, and tbtTother 
principal cities in tlio South and West. Slie afterwards appeared in Ci».;fornia 
and Australia, and was everywhere received in this character with enthusiasm. 
Slie WIS almost invariably called before the curtain after the third, fourth, and 
fifth acts of the play, and on one occasion the excited audience followed her to 
her hotel, and would not disperse until she made her appearance on the bal- 
cony." — nome Journal. 

"The play is well written — the language good, the dialogue easy, and the 

situations effective It is of that domestic kind vliich is 

always popular, and is one of the best American productions we have seen." — 
George D. Pkkntice, Louisville Journal. 

"The play of Sybil is one of no ordinary merit. With the excepti?'; of the 
introductory act, which seems to us to be tedious, and not suitably preparatory 
for the thrilling drama which follows, it is a tragedy which ranks with the im- 
mortal works of the best writers for the stage. There is nothing in the plays of 
Shakspere more beautiful and affecting than the scene in which S;^bi','t&ks an 
oath tor the destruction of her seducer, and her lover kneels by her side, and 
looks to lieaven and takes the terrible oath." — Louisville Courier. 

"The story is of well-sustained interest throughout, and the plot well han- 
dled by the dramatist. The three last acts will well compare with any dramatic 
product on the modern stage " — Richmond Enquirer. 

"Mr. John Savage's play, 'Sybil,' was produced at the St. Charles last night 
before a large auditory, from whom it received a triumphant reception. As an 
acting drama it has points of effect which will keep it upon the stase when the 
actress for whom it was written shall walk the boards no more. Though often 
trembling on the very brink of the blood and thunder abyss of the melodrama, 
it is constantly rescued and assured to respectability by the purity and loftiness 
of expression, and by the unexpected denouements of the minor complications. 
The staple of the plot is of a nature so delicate as to require the most gingerly 
handling, and we confess that we were surprised and pleased by the skilful 
manner in which the dramatist has managed it. The minor scenes are dis- 
creetly made only so long as is necessary to the continuity of the plot. The 
part oi Sybil is a study, for it is the m.o?,tnatural unnatural character that we 
can recall in the range of the drama. As to its performance, we never saw 
Miss Jones in any other part approach to the tragic power she displayed in 
this." — New Orleans Daily Crescent. 



CRITICAL OPINIONS. 



"This production, having created quite a sensation in the several cities in 
wliicli it, lias been put ni)()n the stage, excited more curious interest among 
our playgoers tlian any otiier dramatic piece that lias yet appeared npon the 
bills As a i)roduction of high literary merit tiiere is no ques- 
tion of its claims. It is. perhaps, unequalled among the more modern pro- 
ductions." — 3Iemphifi Avalanche. 

" The genius of the author rises in grandeur with tiie stirring incidents of the 
scenes that rapidly succeed each other, from the commencement of the third 
act to the close of this thrilling drama of domestic life." — San Francisco 
National. 

"The Play of 'Sybil' is beautifully written. Many of its passages are poetic 
gems. It is replete with elegant diction, exquisite pathos, and soul-ennobling 
thoughts and expressions. It is almost too brilliant."— <S'rtcraTO^7i^o Dern. 
Standard. 

" Mr. John Savage's drama of ' Sybil,' which has acquired an historic interest, 
not only from the tvasic episode on which it is founded, but from the circum- 
stances attending its first production at the Louisville tlieatre, was brought out 
at this establishment (Winter Garden) last night. With such materials as 
Mr. Savage had to deal with, he could not well write a piece that would fail 
in interest; but there was for this very reason a fear that he would fall into 
the error to which all young playwriirlits are exposed in dealing with such a 
subject — that of investing it with a melodramatic character. 

"That danger he has happily avoided. From the commencement to the 
close the effects are letritimate and owe but little to dramatic artifices. The 
language. thoUirh what might be expected from an accompli.-^hed writer, is 
never stilted or high flown, as first efi'orts of this sort are liatde to be. The in- 
tensely absorbing interest of the main incidents might, it is true, have been 
relieved by a few broader dashes of humor in the characters of the inferior per- 
sonages of the piece, and a little more local color might have been given to 
it; but, perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Savage exercised a wise discretion in con- 
fining himself ti) eflfects of which he was sure, and which, as the result proved, 
were amply sufficient for success. 

"There is much to criticise, much to find fault with, in Miss Heron's im- 
personation of the cliaracter; but, with all thi-s, it must be admitted that it 

was a remarkable performance In the interview Avith 

she was really fine, reminding one at times, in the concentration of 

iiatred and loathing which she exhibited towards him, of Rachel." — New York 
Herald. 

" Last evening, she — Matilda Heron as S7/l>il—\vas in her highest form, and 
in the surge of sentiinent and pomp of passion which swells around the char- 
acter, she surpassed herself. " — New York Daily Times. 

" Grand as she undoubtedly is in Camillp. in the Syiil she quite eclipsed 
that character. The author has surrounded her with every variety of tender 
passion, revenge, and remorse, and each aspect of these varied feelings was 

rendered by Miss Heron in a manner not artistic, but life-like 

The play may be set down as a great success." — New York Express. 

" Upon these incidents, fresh and terrible as they are. Mr. John Savage 
has constructed a tragic drama. The author, albeit unused to the boards, has 
not fallen into turgidity. He has maintained a rare moderation of tone, look 
ing to the fierce fMCts to sustain him. All that he portrays, and more, act 
iially happened. When the villain meets the heroine in the play, she re- 
lents from her determination, and, while spurning his audacious advances 
begs him to fly, to escape her husband's wrath were he to find ouL his real 
name and character. This, as we have shown, is not in the real story. But it 
improves and varies the characteristics of the jeiUMJrfgure: portrays feminine 
tenderness, which is tli^llJireiiAt of allUoH^H or off the stage." — New 
York Tribune. g %/9 " 

" She— Mrs. Waller a,^SyW.^yf&?, honored by being called before the cur- 
ain four times." — P?iiladelphia Evening Bulletin. 









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